Exigencies
by Priority
Summary: CHAPTER 34 UP - AFTER AN ETERNITY. Rebuilding a shattered life. Inspired by The Contract and Lifeline. Thanks for reading!
1. Prologue

A/N This is my first posted fan fiction, so constructive criticism is heartily welcomed. (Flames are not.) This story was inspired by and takes place after DIY Sheep's The Contract and TrooperCam's Lifeline, so if you haven't read those first, please do! Many thanks to DIY Sheep for her beta, and for TrooperCam's encouragement, too.

Standard disclaimer: I don't own House or any of the rest of it and I'm not making a dime off this, so please don't sue. I'm just taking them out for a frolic.

Exigencies

prologue

Foreman slammed the file down on the table with all his pent-up frustration.

"This girl is as good as dead if we don't figure this out in 24 hours."

Chase sat hunched in his chair, exhaustion etching his features. "We're no closer to a diagnosis now than we were when she was admitted. Evans has been calling every diagnostician he knows and we've run test after test."

"Where is he, anyway?"

"Evans and Devi Rajghatta are with the patient. Running some more useless tests, I imagine. Devi's already ruled out any cardiac issues."

"I hate this," Foreman growled. He glanced at the white board. "None of those symptoms add up."

"Not for us." Chase sat back with a sigh, the tip of his pen stuck in his mouth as he also eyed the mute white board. "You know, if House were here, he'd have it figured out by now."

Foreman nodded, only half listening, then suddenly looked up and met Chase's gaze. "Yeah. You're right. We need House."

Chase's jaw slowly unhinged. "What? You're dreaming."

Foreman's direct stare said otherwise.

"Foreman, it isn't possible. After what he's been through --"

"All we need is his brain and his mouth, Chase. This girl is going to die. House can take a look at the symptoms, the history and the test results and give us his opinion. We can do the rest."

"But Dr. Evans --"

"-- doesn't ever need to know. No one needs to know but us." Foreman started gathering up the case files. "We take this stuff --" He stopped abruptly, and the confident gleam in his eye faded. "Shit. We don't even know where House lives now."

Chase tapped the pen against his upper lip, thinking. "Wilson does."

"Sure, like he'll tell us. How many times have we asked him about House? How he's doing, if we can see him? He says House doesn't want to see anybody."

"So we don't ask him." A sly smile curved Chase's lips. "We follow him instead."

Foreman's face brightened with a slow grin. "C'mon, let's get all this stuff together. We'll take my car."

---------

It was after 6 p.m. when James Wilson locked up his office and trudged out to the parking garage.

Chase and Foreman were already in Foreman's SUV, staking out the Wilson's Volvo.

"How do we know he'll be going to House?"

Chase looked at his colleague. "Wilson's his only friend. You know he checks on him every day. Hell, he probably lives there."

Watching Wilson climb into his car, Foreman sighed. "He hasn't been the same since all this. Starting with their big argument. Then ..." He avoided saying Cameron's name. "Then when House went to prison, it was like Wilson was just ..."

"A zombie," Chase furnished. "Once the truth came out he seemed to come alive again."

Foreman snorted. "Yeah, I guess. But he closed his practice to take care of House after the trial." Three months ago Wilson had returned to his practice at Princeton-Plainsborough, looking better but still strained, and politely but firmly close-mouthed about House himself. "He won't tell us much of anything. Just says House is recuperating. That he's better."

Chase buckled his seat belt as Foreman pulled out of the parking lot, keeping a distance from the Volvo. "I never could believe House did that to Cameron." His words were tentative, hesitant to bring up the painful memory of their lost colleague. "I didn't understand why he wouldn't defend himself in court, why he let himself be convicted and sent to prison."

"We know now."

"Yeah." After a moment, he added, "As much of an ass as House was, though, Evans just can't fill his shoes."

"Evans is competent. Just not inspired. Or inspiring." Foreman chuckled and shook his head. "Never thought of House as 'inspiring' before. Usually I just wanted to punch him."

"Me too. But he didn't deserve the misery Thompson put him through. No one deserved that."

The two physicians fell silent for a few minutes, each pursuing his own thoughts as they waited out a red light. Wilson's Volvo idled two cars in front of them.

After a while, Foreman murmured, "I heard a rumor ..."

Chase kept his eyes on the traffic. "Yeah. So did I."

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Foreman sighed. "Can't help but think about it sometimes. We barely know what went on, but I've got a good imagination. House was going through hell. Couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't get help or hide or run away. Something like that would make anyone lose it. A person can only take so much."

Neither man had ventured to discuss this topic before.

Chase spoke quietly. "So you think it's true? House ... lost his mind?"

"All I know is, a man lives through what he did, PTSD is gonna be the least of his problems."

Chase was surprised at how much the thought hurt him. "So ... we do all this, follow Wilson to find House, and he's just ... vacant? Crazy?" He blew out a breath through clenched teeth. "I don't want to see House like that."

"Me either. But he must be okay now. Wilson came back to work, started his practice again. He wouldn't have done that if House still needed him."

"Unless he found a home for him. Or a caregiver."

"We've got to try, Chase, or Emily's dead by this time tomorrow."

---------------------

They followed Wilson to a small cluster of townhouses in a nice neighborhood, taking note of which door he went to as the oncologist let himself in with a key.

Foreman parked his vehicle a couple of houses down. "Sure hope this isn't Wilson's girlfriend's place."

"There must be a name on a mailbox or something."

"If it's House, there won't be. He's basically hiding from the press."

Gathering the case files, Chase shook his head. "Wilson's gonna be pissed."

"Don't care," Foreman stated flatly as he got out. "All I want to do is save our patient's life." He moved purposefully toward the door Wilson had used, and Chase scudded along in his wake, dreading what they might find.

At the door, Foreman looked at his colleague for a second, then raised his fist to knock.

---------------

The expression on Wilson's face when he opened the door was priceless.

"Dr. Wilson? We need to talk to House," Foreman said firmly.

Wilson gaped at them, then threw a quick look over his shoulder before stepping outside and shutting the door behind him.

"What the hell are you two doing here? How did you know --"

"We followed you from the hospital." Foreman interrupted, unapologetic. "We have a patient who's going to die, and we can't diagnose her without House."

Wilson waved a hand. "Evans can handle it. He's good. Go back to your office."

Foreman scowled. "He's stumped, and so are we. She'll be lucky if she has another day to live."

Chase took a step forward. "Dr. Wilson, the patient is 8 years old."

That silenced the protests on the tip of Wilson's tongue for a moment. He stared at them, then his thick eyebrows lowered over narrowed eyes. In a bare whisper, he said, "Listen up. House is not the same as he was. Keep your voices quiet. So help me, if you upset him, I'm throwing you out on your asses."

They followed him into the foyer where he motioned them to stay. Wilson went down a short hall and turned to his left. They could hear him speaking softly over the drone of a TV.

"House? It's Foreman and Chase. They ... they followed me here. Got a patient ­-- a child -- they can't diagnose, and they want your help."

"They can handle it." It was indeed House's voice, but hoarse and very quiet.

"Foreman said the kid has maybe a day to live."

Chase strained to hear House's response, but if there was one, it was too soft to carry. He heard the sound of the television being turned off, and then Wilson was standing in the hall, beckoning them. His expression was thunderous with unspoken warnings.

The doctors walked into a comfortably sized living room, its hardwood floors and sparse furnishings giving it an open feel. Chase's eyes were drawn to the couch in the middle of the room. Reclined against a stack of pillows, a blanket thrown over him, was ... House?

He blinked, unaware he was staring. It _was_ House -- the piercing blue eyes were what Chase recognized. House's face had always been narrow and gaunt, but now he looked fragile, like someone who was terminally ill. His face carried scars, and lines of pain cut deeper than before.

Foreman recovered his poise first. "Dr. House. It's ... good to see you again. We wouldn't bother you if it wasn't urgent."

It was obvious that House was uncomfortable having his fellows see him as he'd become, thin and weakened. He could hardly meet their eyes, so instead he looked at Wilson.

"Wilson, sit down." Like he was calling off a growling dog.

The sharp eyes took a quick sweep of the other two. "What are you guys doing here? Why are you still in New Jersey?"

Foreman was finding it hard to look at his former boss without staring. He hoped his face didn't show the shocked dismay he felt. "I ... we're still at Princeton-Plainsborough. We're attendings under Dr. Evans."

House's expression gave nothing away. "I haven't practiced medicine for three years. What do you two want from me?"

"Dr. House, we've done everything we could think of. We can't figure out why she's dying and Evans is stumped too. We're here to try to save her life. Just look at her file, tell us what we've missed." Foreman slowly extended the folder toward House.

He eyed it speculatively, then took his arm out from under the blanket and reached for it.

The fingers of his hand were crooked and scarred, and when the cuff of his shirtsleeve fell back, it revealed thick bands of scar tissue circling his wrist.

Rope burns, Chase thought, unable to keep from staring. Scars on top of scars, where House had been tied by the wrists and fought his bindings, over and over through the years. Despite all the things that he'd heard, it was seeing those marks that suddenly made it all real. Chase quickly lowered himself onto a nearby chair, clearing his throat to relieve the tightness there.

He felt House's eyes flick over him, and he made sure his expression was composed before looking up again.

Foreman's own face was schooled to show nothing, but Wilson was eyeing them closely, determined that they not upset his convalescing friend.

"House, you don't have to do this." He got a sharp glance.

"I can still read a file." House angled the pages toward the light, turning slightly. The collar of his shirt gapped a little, enough to show a jagged white line across his prominent adam's apple.

Foreman glanced away. There was the explanation for the hoarseness: damage to the vocal cords. When House had taken the file Foreman had seen the crooked fingers, knew they'd been broken more than once and poorly reset. The scars on his wrist had been obvious, too.

Wilson's stare was a sharp reminder that the names on that infamous contract had included those of House's diagnostic team, and Allison Cameron had been killed to make a point that Thompson was serious. House had submitted to unremitting torture to keep everyone else on that list safe.

House had survived it, if only because Thompson's revenge had been cut short by a bullet. But survive he had, and what was left to him was a catastrophically damaged body. How could there not be damage to his psyche?

Careful to keep his thoughts off his face, Foreman traded an enigmatic look with Chase before moving to sit on an ottoman.

There was silence except for House turning pages as he scanned lab results, history, treatment notes and medicines prescribed.

After long minutes he closed the file, his gaze far away. "Did you X-ray her liver?" he rasped.

Chase looked at him. "She was X-rayed after the crash, chest and abdomen, to check for trauma. Her liver was slightly enlarged."

House nodded. "The car crash hid her real symptoms. Bruising, nosebleeds, bone pain ... do a blood test for Gaucher disease, then start her on enzyme replacement therapy."

His eyes alight with hope, Foreman reached for the file in House's hands.

The sudden movement made House jerk back instinctively, and everyone in the room froze.

House cleared his throat. Eyes downcast, he held out the file. Wilson took it and handed it to Foreman, the look on his face telling them clearly it was time to leave.

Moving much more carefully, Foreman stood up, as did Chase.

"Dr. House ... thank you. Sorry we barged in --"

Embarrassed by his reaction, House just gestured them to go.

----------------

The two fellows were silent for the first part of the ride back. After 20 minutes, Foreman finally said, "I never thought of Gaucher."

"He could be wrong. But the injuries from the car accident _would_ mask most of the symptoms."

Neither man wanted to be the first to broach the topic of House's condition. It was Chase who finally muttered, "Well, he did seem as sane as ever. Whatever that means for _him."_

Foreman sighed. "I respect the man for what he's been through. More for why he went through it. Just surviving says everything. He's got nothing he needs to prove."

-----------------------

Emily's blood test for Gaucher was positive, and she began responding to the enzyme therapy. Explaining the diagnosis to Evans and Cuddy the following morning was not as easy. Neither Chase or Foreman wanted to take credit for the breakthrough, so they had to admit they'd gone to House.

Cuddy had looked up quickly at that, as Evans had nodded to himself. "Of course. Gaucher. It was right in front of us the whole time." He raised his eyes to meet Cuddy's gaze. "This hospital lost a tremendous asset when it lost Dr. House."

She smiled. "Dr. Evans, not even House always got it right. This time he had the answer. It's certainly no reflection on you or your department."

---------------------

"It must have been good, seeing and working with Dr. House again," Devi said to them over drinks. The bar and grill was called The Recovery Room, catering as it did to the hospital crowd from PPTH. Dr. Devyani Rajghatta was a cardiologist from the West Coast, new to her fellowship in the Princeton-Plainsborough diagnostics department.

Chase looked at Foreman and fiddled with his glass.

Finally Foreman sighed. "No. It was ... awkward. He's changed. A lot."

"He's ill," Chase said, a little defensively.

"Ill? The man's a train wreck." At Chase's scowl, Foreman raised a hand to forestall any protest. "I know, it's hardly his fault. And I assume he's recovering from corrective surgeries. I saw a bruised place on the back of his hand, like he'd had a recent IV port there. Explains why he looked so ... unwell." Foreman shook his head. "I have to admit, I didn't see that diagnosis coming, though."

"He was right. As usual." Chase took a swallow of his beer.

"Yeah. He's still a diagnostic genius. But Chase, you were there too. Do _you_ think he'll ever recover enough to practice again?"

"No way to know. If he does, I'd work for him again."

Rajghatta looked at Foreman, questioning.

Off her look, he shrugged. "Of course I would. But I don't see it happening. If there was ever an argument for PTSD, it's House. Who could be totally sane after going through what he did?"

Devi studied her two colleagues. Their mood was subdued, and in the looks they exchanged was a hint of sadness and guilt.

"So ... you saw him, right? Talked to him? He's getting better?"

Foreman's dark eyes were focused on the contents of his glass. Chase glanced at her, then quickly away.

"Guys? What's got you so spooked?"

Chase cleared his throat. "He's ... recovering."

"He's never gonna recover," Foreman growled, taking a gulp of his scotch.

Chase started to protest, but Foreman just looked at him. "You saw the same thing I did. The marks on his face. His hands. Those were just what we could see. That's not something you just get over."

Chase winced. "He looked like a bloody POW. D'ja see the scars on his wrists?" At Devi's uncomprehending frown, Chase took a slug of his own drink. "Rope burns. Lacerations from chains and handcuffs, too. Just ... layered on top of each other."

Foreman's voice was soft. "We knew he was tortured."

"One thing to hear about it. Another to see the blatant evidence." After a moment he added, "House would never accept sympathy, back when we worked for him. He'd rather be made fun of or hated than have people feel sorry for him. No wonder he's a regular hermit these days."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Two months later_

"Do you think he's ready?"

The setting sun slanted through the wooden blinds of her office windows, striping James Wilson's face in bars of light and shadow. He shrugged at her question. "Who knows? We've tried to think of everything, anything, that would appeal to him." Wilson's brown eyes flicked away, but not before she saw a hint of his desperation. He hesitated, shifting position and uncrossing his legs. Wilson's voice became distant. "After the infarction, part of him died, I think. Part of his spirit."

Cuddy nodded. She knew.

"It took everything he had to face people again, to work. To even engage himself that much with the world." His tone grew softer. "He said he hated how people looked at him. Hated dealing with their sympathy and stupidity. You know, he'd never had much faith or trust in people, even before his leg."

"I always figured he was fueled by anger. Anger, and the need to put his brain to use."

Wilson met her gaze. "Lisa ... I think now he's even given up the anger. Another piece of his spirit is gone. I'm wondering if there's anything left of House. Anything that gives a damn."

Cuddy lifted her chin. "We know he wants to live. He fought hard to survive Thompson's crazy vendetta. The catatonia scared me, I admit, but he fought his way out of that, too. He agreed to, and had some corrective surgery. He's still fighting, James. To get his life back. If there was nothing left of him, he'd just let himself die." She leaned forward and touched Wilson's hand. "He needs his old life back, as much of it as he _can_ get back. He needs to be reminded of who he was, who he still is. Getting him back to work will do that. Solving medical puzzles is the only thing he's ever really given a damn about."

Wilson was nodding, but still wary. "It's his decision, in the end."

"I know. Just get him to meet with me. Any time. Anywhere." Cuddy tapped perfectly manicured nails on her desk, her mind racing. "At tomorrow's board meeting, I'll announce the news of Dr. Evans' resignation. And I'll suggest the position of Chief of Diagnostics be offered to Greg House. If House will talk to me, I want to be able to just hand the job to him. I don't want to take the chance that if he agrees, the board will put up a stink. Better to handle that ahead of time."

Wilson stood up. "Good thinking. I'll see what I can do on my end. No guarantees."

Cuddy smiled and stood too. "Understood. Thanks, James."

Halfway to the door, Wilson paused, turning. "You know, it upsets him, that we saw him when he was in prison. In chains, and in such terrible shape. And that we witnessed what happened in the courtroom and took care of him after. It's humiliating to him, although he's mostly able to accept that I was there."

"He's always been able to accept your help," Cuddy admitted. "But is that why he won't let me visit? Because I was there during the catatonia?"

WIlson sighed. "How would you feel?"

"How would I feel? I wouldn't want anyone's pity. Understanding, I think I could handle. As for House, I'd feel awkward until he cracked some kind of crude joke."

Smiling briefly, Wilson commented, "He calls that time his 'salad days.'"

She smiled too, hearing an echo of the old House.

Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. "Lisa, the main thing is, House doesn't know we've seen one of those tapes. He thinks we only know what he said in the trials. If he ever found out ..." He shook his head, at a loss to complete the thought.

"All right, then. I'll take that memory to my grave and never tell another soul. Work on him, James. Get him to talk to me."


	3. Chapter 2A

Chapter 2A

Cuddy stood up at her place at the conference table, looking at the expectant faces before her.

"As you know, Frank Evans has submitted his resignation to this board to pursue a position at the CDC. I'd like to make a suggestion for a candidate to take his position as head of Diagnostics." She met the eyes of the board members. "I propose we offer the position to Dr. Gregory House, for a trial period of two months."

A few gasps punctuated her statement. Everyone on the board was surprised -- some pleasantly, some not.

"Here here," Dr. Naveen Ajunta called out.

But Alan Pevey looked appalled. "Dr. Cuddy, that's... that's just not possible."

She raised one eyebrow. "Why is it impossible, Dr. Pevey?"

The older man frowned. "All right, I grant you that House was a renowned diagnostician. But when he was here before, he was a loose cannon. Now ..."

Cuddy stayed calm. "Now?"

People exchanged looks, sensing a storm coming. Ajunta leaned over to Pevey and whispered to him, but Pevey shook his head, waving off his fellow board member.

"Dr. Cuddy, for one thing, he's a felon."

She stared at Pevey as if he'd grown a second head. "No, doctor. He is not."

Ajunta chimed in angrily. "Alan, don't be an ass. The state acknowledged it made a mistake and expunged his record. Legally, House is probably cleaner than anyone in this room."

A few chuckles wafted across the table.

"Any other objections?" Cuddy asked.

Georgia Seyer leaned forward. "I'm new to the board, and I've never met the man. But Dr. Cuddy, the case was splashed all over the news for weeks. Months. Dr. House was in very bad shape when he was released from prison. It's been almost a year, I know, but ... is he physically up to the job?"

Pevey snorted. "Physically? I doubt it, but that isn't really the issue, Dr. Seyer. We don't have to be psychiatrists to figure House has PTSD. How's he going to handle patients when he's wrestling with that?"

Cuddy wanted to strangle the old bastard. "Dr. House has come a long way in his recovery. But it's no secret that he is still recovering. That's why I want to make the offer of a trial period, to see how it goes."

The door to the conference room opened behind her, and Wilson hurried in. "Sorry. Got held up, patient consult." He took his seat.

Pevey scowled at him. Everyone knew Wilson was House's staunchest supporter. "This was your idea, wasn't it. To get House his job back."

"Yes, I threatened Evans into quitting just on the off-chance that House would accept the position again," Wilson deadpanned, getting a few snickers.

Pevey rubbed his forehead. "With all due respect, can this board, in good conscience, hire Greg House? It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Cuddy opened her mouth, but it was Wilson who pierced the other man with a hot glare.

"Explain that, Dr. Pevey," he said, a sharp edge to his voice.

"Before you came in, Dr. Wilson, I pointed out that it's obvious House suffers from post traumatic stress disorder. From what the press said, the man lived through four years of hell. I grant you, he's brave. But that kind of victimization leaves emotional scars." Pevey gestured broadly. "Before all this, House was an arrogant, cocksure pain in the ass. He acted like he was accountable to no one. After the trauma he's survived, he surely can't be _more_ stable than he was. Should he be put in charge of any patient's care?"

Cuddy turned her gaze to Wilson. "Dr. Wilson, you've played a big part in Dr. House's recovery. What is his physical and mental condition?"

Wilson considered the question, and how to phrase his answer. "Physically, he's well enough to work. He isn't the same... He can't be on his feet for long periods. His hands ... there's nerve damage. None of which matters, because he won't be treating patients directly. His team will do that. Mentally ... he needs to work. To focus. To find a way to make everything he's been through mean something." Wilson took a second to maintain his composure, then looked directly at Pevey. "He's changed. He probably never will be the same. Some of you would consider that an improvement. House _is_ coping with PTSD, if that's the label you want to slap on him after his entire life was destroyed. But his medical judgment is unimpaired."

Vicki Stohl gestured for attention. "Dr. Wilson, what about his Vicodin addiction? It was never that much of a secret, you know."

Wilson nodded. "He is no longer addicted. He takes three per day. Four at most. The rest of his pain management program is nonaddictive. Neither drugs nor pain will cloud his judgment."

Ajunta threw a scowl toward Pevey and leaned forward. "Dr. House was always unconventional, wouldn't play by the rules. Abrasive. But his reputation as a diagnostician was a great asset to this hospital. I say, if he'll come back, the job should be his."

Pevey banged his fist on the table. "Yeah, he was a real shining star, all right. When the story came out about that crazy Thompson guy, House was a media darling. You couldn't turn on the news or pick up a paper without seeing something about it. But people, this is a lose-lose situation. Innocent or not, House was involved in the murder of a young girl who worked for him. He went to prison for it. And that's what everyone out there associates with the name Gregory House."

Wilson's eyes flashed. "And likewise, they all know he was a victim. An _innocent_ victim, who took all the pain and humiliation dealt to him to save the lives of seven people."

Pevey spread his hands. "So those that don't think he's a monster will just see a pitiful wreck of a man. Is that what we want in this hospit --"

James Wilson was on his feet in a heartbeat, grabbing Pevey by the lapels, pulling him out of his chair and shoving him against the wall.

Between clenched teeth, Wilson growled, "He is not a monster, and he is _not_ a 'pitiful wreck.' He is a normal, feeling human being who has survived four years of unrelenting torture. He's a better man than _you, _Pevey." With a final shake, he let the man go, turning his gaze to the shocked faces around him. "My God, people, we find compassion in ourselves for prisoners of war who have been held and tortured. What the hell is the difference?"

------------------------------

When the vote was taken, only Pevey dissented.


	4. Chapter 2B

Chapter 2B

When Wilson's call came a week and half later, Cuddy didn't hesitate to rearrange her schedule. Wilson didn't mention what threats or blackmail he'd used to get House to agree to meet with her, and Lisa didn't ask. It was enough that she'd get her chance.

James had told her a few days ago that House was driving again, for short trips. He'd bought a car and had hand controls installed.

She'd caught the ambivalence in Wilson's voice. Before this nightmare with Thompson, House had scorned such concessions to his handicap. The cane and some grab bars in his shower were about as far as he'd go.

Now Wilson seemed worried that House was no longer fighting. The worry was understandable, but still, what House had just gone through was much worse than the infarction. No one had any illusions that he'd bounce back to his old self. A lot of damage had been inflicted on his body over several years. Repairing the damage -- what could be repaired -- took its toll as well. Right now House was struggling with forearm crutches since a recent surgery to reset some bones in his foot and repair a ligament in his right knee. He'd be on crutches for at least half a year until it all healed.

Cuddy felt a prickle beginning in her eyes, and sternly fought it back. She had to remember what it was like with House. Strict control was needed at all times, because he was unable to distinguish sympathy from pity. An odd blind spot for such an otherwise perceptive man.

Sitting back in her executive chair, Cuddy turned her gaze out the window and let herself realize how much she'd missed Greg House, all these long years.

Even when he was still working here she'd missed him, because he had changed so completely. The injuries, his tight-lipped silences when she'd yell at him for his coldness, his nastiness, what she'd presumed to be his recklessness. He had been deliberately distancing himself from everyone then, doing everything in his power to turn away curiosity and concern and the accompanying questions. He'd withdrawn almost completely in an attempt to protect the people he cared about.

The attack on Cameron had thrown everyone into shock. His voice on the telephone that day had been strangely certain and detached when he had told her Cameron was dead. Cuddy remembered operating on autopilot for over a month, unable to fully absorb what had happened. House had speedily gone to prison on first-degree murder charges, speaking not a word in his own defense.

Now she knew why, of course.

But back then it was all a blur, until one day when her mind wouldn't leave it alone, and she spent the entire afternoon locked in her office thinking. And when she'd thought it all through, Cuddy had realized that, short of a brain disease changing his personality, House would never, ever have been capable of killing Allison Cameron.

Which was what Wilson had been saying all along, in staunch defense of his friend.

It was as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders and her soul. True, the rest of the world still thought him guilty, and the whole situation was a public relations nightmare without end for her hospital.

But from that moment, Cuddy had decided that House was innocent, and that he was still the man she'd known for so long. She could do nothing to prove his innocence. That prison would be his home for the rest of his life. The relief came from just knowing, without a shadow of doubt, that House had not become a monster. That he always had been, and still was, incapable of cold-blooded murder.

She'd felt strangely vindicated that day, as if she'd given herself permission to grieve for an old friend.

Cuddy had known that House was locked away for something he didn't do, and would never be set free. But she would walk the halls of her hospital listening for the syncopated rhythm of House's stride, or the bang of her office door as he barged in. She even missed the regular-as-clockwork consults with the hospital's attorneys over the newest House-related complaints.

The board of directors washed their hands of him. Frank Evans was hired as head of Diagnostics. The mention of House's name was discouraged by those who wanted his history at Princeton-Plainsborough buried and forgotten. Cuddy had held her tongue, carried on as if the world was still a normal place, and grieved for her loss.

Then Thompson had been shot to death on a restaurant parking lot.

The revelations flowing from that action had carried her along like whitewater rapids. The discovery of Thompson's dealings. His video collection. The contract itself, signed by House in his own blood.

She had found herself drowning in one shock after another, culminating in seeing House, so frail and battered and defeated, collapse as the words of his pardon were read.

The memory of his empty, frightened eyes haunted her still. When James had called her months later, stuttering and stammering in his excitement, trying to say that House was back, complaining and swearing and alive again, Lisa screamed her happiness into the phone, and later to the four walls of her home. She'd seen House once after that, but he'd been so painfully quiet and uncomfortable that she'd merely expressed her joy that he was himself again and left him to Wilson's calm company. Finally the world had tilted back to its rightful place, and if the price of that was missing House's familiar, annoying presence in her life, she would pay it without complaint.

Lisa smiled to herself. The truth was, she was as human as anyone else. That Greg was back was enough. It really was. But the oh-so-typical human part of her wanted more. She wanted House at work, here, where he belonged. If he could never heal enough to attain that, fine. But he _was_ healing, at least a little. Maybe enough to need more from his life than surviving each day. And that was something she could play a big part in.


	5. Chapter 3

Lisa Cuddy sat at the table and nervously fingered the menu in front of her.

She was, as always, prepared for this meeting. Her arguments were practiced and ready, but she knew when all was said and done, she had little influence.

She relied on Wilson to keep her informed of House's progress. In some areas he was gaining ground. Further surgeries had relieved some of his constant pain -- bones reset, ligaments repaired.

But as for the rest ... he still didn't sleep well. He was using forearm crutches to walk until his surgery healed and therapy could restore strength and stability. His hands weren't steady and there was little the surgeons could do to fix his fingers.

His nerves had improved, but he still flinched from loud noises or sudden movements. On his good days he could drive, using hand controls. On bad days he barely reacted to the world around him.

Post traumatic stress disorder. Simple enough to diagnose, Cuddy sighed to herself. But to put a human being through what House had suffered ... could anyone fully recover from an extended stay in hell?

She heard the crutches, the uneven steps, and turned to see him approach her table.

"I'm surprised you came," she told him honestly.

House pulled out a chair and took his arms from the crutches, lowering himself to sit across from her. He looked ten years older than his actual age.

"Yeah. I'm surprised too."

She took a sip of her water. "It's good to see you out on your own."

"Now with thirty percent less drool," he muttered.

Cuddy had to smile. "House, you didn't drool. And you were much easier to get along with." Best to take the bull by the horns when dealing with House. He could handle sarcasm better than sympathy, so she had to make a joke of it in order to address the topic.

"You liked me better as vegetable?"

She made a show of considering the question. "You were much less of a pain in the ass, but not as good a conversationalist." She took a chance on being serious. "I'm glad you're better. And James nearly danced for joy when you came back to yourself."

Fine tremors made his hands shake. He pressed his palms against the table to still their trembling. "Wilson needed to go back to his own life. He's done too much for me. It was taking a toll on him."

She spread her hands. "House -- Greg. We all owe you our lives."

It was difficult for him to meet people's eyes. When he did, it was usually only a glance, like he was doing now.

"Then make your lives meaningful. Don't waste them baby-sitting me."

The waiter arrived. House didn't look up at him as he mumbled his order, a white pizza and beer. Cuddy chose a salad and a glass of wine.

When they were alone again, he looked past her, out the front windows to the street. "I know what this is about. It's a bad idea."

She studied his face, its lack of emotion, daring him to return her gaze. He didn't. "Maybe it's about making _your_ life meaningful. Greg, you _are_ recovering. What do you want to do with the rest of your life?"

Those bleak blue eyes flicked to hers for a second before darting away.

"Forget."

She held her breath, caught off guard. As she stared at him, House looked down at the table as if he were ashamed of what he'd said.

"And sitting at home, watching soap operas ... does that help you forget?"

He kept his eyes cast down. "Nothing does."

"I can think of one thing that would help." She saw the muscles in his jaw clench, but he showed no other sign that he was listening. "For people like us, there's only one thing that gives us a purpose. We're healers. Sometimes, healing others can heal us."

Finally he showed a glimmer of expression, turning his face away with a grimace of frustration.

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Cuddy took a grateful swallow of her wine to brace herself for battle.

"Dr. Evans is leaving. He's going to take a position at the CDC." No response. "The board voted in favor of you returning to your position, with reinstatement of your tenure after a two-month trial period."

Still nothing.

"The first floor is being remodeled. Your office can be moved there, near the ER. You and your staff will have parking at the physicians' entrance on that side of the building. Very, very close to your new office." To herself Cuddy was praying, _Come on, House, throw me a bone here! _"If you accept, I'll have your private office specially designed. No glass walls or doors." She remembered the planning/scheming sessions with Wilson, and James' pained expression when he had had to admit, _Sometimes House ... remembers things. And it can overwhelm him. _Cuddy closed her eyes a moment. "You would have complete privacy when you want it."

House reached for his beer, but didn't look at her. His expression gave away nothing.

"It'll be like it used to be. You'll take the cases that interest you. Foreman and Chase will be your attendings. And no clinic duty." It was her hole card.

He suddenly barked a harsh laugh. "No clinic duty? I'd say that's a given. Bad enough letting patients see me. But making me actually treat them?" He raised his free hand, showing her the tremor. "Want me to give shots? See me zombie out in a crisis?" House scrubbed his face with his hands, giving a sharp sigh. "It'd be a big mistake. Even without treating patients directly."

She put a bit of steel in her voice. "So a flat refusal is way easier than trying?"

Some heat was becoming evident in his voice, too. "We're not paving streets here. If something goes wrong, a patient could die. You act like you're ready to risk lives on nothing but the mere hope that I'm competent to do my job."

"Of course you're competent to do it!"

He met her eyes with a granite stare. "I _was_."

Cuddy leaned forward, using the rare eye contact to press her point. "You _are. _Just two months ago Foreman and Chase consulted with you on the Gaucher case. You came in cold, read the file, and made the diagnosis. And you were right."

House's eyes winced away from hers. "Cuddy ... that one was obvious. And they hunted me down for the consult."

She opened her hands in a triumphant gesture.

House scowled at her. "What?"

"The patient's previous doctors were baffled. Foreman and Chase were stumped. Evans had no answers. You waltz in and -- what did you just say? -- it was 'obvious.' It's the way your mind works, House. You're a brilliant diagnostician. And by the way, that's partly why Evans is leaving. He can't forget that you saved that little girl's life when he couldn't."

He took a long swallow from his beer, shaking his head angrily. After a moment, his anger seemed to drain away.

"You know, I appreciate what you're doing, in your misguided conviction that this is best." House looked down at the table again, his damaged voice softer. "But the facts don't change. I'm not who I used to be. And everyone ... knows. They know what happened." His eyebrows rose slightly. "Foreman, Chase ... they'll question my competence, my ability to handle a crisis. They'll treat me like I might break. Because they know I have, and it could happen again. They'll wonder if I can handle the pressure. They _should_ wonder." His mouth set in a hard line. "I'm supposed to guide them? Teach them? How can they trust me not to fall apart?"

The pain in his voice, in his eyes, tore at her. Cuddy could never have imagined the Greg House she'd known three years ago being reduced to this.

"I don't have those answers," she told him honestly. "I only have one answer for you, Dr. House. One thing I know for a fact, from all the years I've known you. And it's this -- when there's a puzzle you want to solve, nothing on God's green Earth will distract you from it. Not even your own pain."

The food arrived. As they were served, House looked both upset and thoughtful. Once the waiter was gone, the silence stretched for a minute or two.

"You know it's a mistake."

Cuddy ignored her salad, studying his face. It was intaglioed with scars, creased with years of pain. She kept her tone reasonable. "I know it's a mistake for you to hide for the rest of your life. You have a gift. It cries out to be used. And it's the one thing Thompson could never take away from you."

For a few seconds she saw it in his face -- the raw hunger for something, anything, untainted by the past few years. Something that was his alone, that had survived unscathed.

"Greg, just try it. Two months. Then if you decide it isn't what you need, I'll hire someone else."


	6. Chapter 4

Wilson waited impatiently for the answering machine to beep.

"House? I know you're home. Pick up, it's me." He was used to giving these messages and waiting for House to answer. When properly motivated, House used to be wicked quick even with the cane, but the crutches slowed him down far more.

Just as he was about to give up, he heard the click.

"Yeah."

"Hey. How'd it go?" Wilson found that his palms were actually damp.

"The test was positive. She's pregnant, and her dad says we have to get married. So much for my dreams of traveling the world."

Wilson sighed. "House ... for once, can I get a straight answer?"

"Why should I? You've already talked to Cuddy."

It was eerie, how House knew him so well. Wilson rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "I tried, but couldn't reach her. So I'm at your mercy for the information." Even over the phone, he heard the slight grunt as House lowered himself to sit down.

"I told her it was a bad idea."

"And...?" 

"She begged. There was a lot of whining."

"Yours, or hers?" Wilson asked. There was a soft snort on the other end of the line in appreciation of his wit.

Then it was House's turn to sigh. "I agreed to two months, until she can hire a replacement. We'll see if I make it that long."

Wilson pumped his fist in the air and shouted a silent '_Yes!!' _Aloud, he said, "I'll be there in an hour. Don't make plans."

---------------

Parking his car, Wilson hit the speed dial for House's phone. To the answering machine's tape he said, "House, I'm here. Need you to get the door for me." By the time he juggled his armful of goodies to the door, House was swinging it open for him.

Wilson held up the champagne bottle with a triumphant grin. "You're in!"

House's smile was only for Wilson's enthusiasm. "It's just a couple of months, you know."

"That's up to you. The job's yours as long as you want it." Wilson was thoroughly at home, striding into the kitchen to put away the food and fetch glasses.

House shut the door and crutched his way to the sofa, dropping onto it with a sigh.

Wilson came back a few moments later with two glasses of champagne. Sitting next to his friend, he handed one to House then raised his own glass.

"To Dr. Gregory House, once again head of Diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital." He clinked his glass against House's and took a long swig.

"Kind of premature, don't you think?"

Wilson eyed the other man. "House, it's okay to be happy, you know. It wouldn't kill you."

House smiled a little at that and sampled the champagne. "You actually got the good stuff."

Setting his glass down, Wilson turned to face his friend. "Greg. I know it isn't easy. It's been five years since things have been anywhere near normal and a lot has happened. But it's where you belong. It's where you really live."

House put down his glass too, taking one of the crutches in his hands to toy with. "That's your subtle way of telling me to suck it up."

"No. You've been sucking it up for too long now. What I want is for you to come back to the world. Be a part of it again. For a while, just making it through each day was all the challenge you could handle. But you're getting better. You need another challenge to take on."

House's smile was crooked. "How about the challenge of ditching these damn crutches?"

Wilson took another hit off his drink. "It'll happen. You're making progress, at least your therapist says so. House, it's your brain that needs the exercise. If you aren't challenged your self-destructive streak takes over. And this deal is too good to pass up. New office, no clinic. You'll have Chase and Foreman back." Wilson grinned. "Except they won't be scut-monkey fellows anymore. Still, you'll be their boss."

House leaned his forehead on the crutch's grip, just as he used to do with the handle of his cane. "What do they think about this?"

Wilson studied him for a long moment. "You tried everything in your power to make them dislike you. To make them think for themselves."

"Yeah. Figured they'd be overjoyed to have me back."

"They are." Wilson laughed at the look House threw him. "Despite all your intricate schemes to inspire them to hate you, there's not much you could do to keep them from admiring you. At least as a diagnostician. Hell, Evans was fine, but I think your former fellows taught him more than the other way around. They want to learn from _you_, House. Nailing that Gaucher case only reminded them of it."

House sat back and rubbed the back of his thumb across his forehead.

Watching him, Wilson knew he couldn't put it off any longer. "Greg ... there is one thing you need to know."

"Uh huh. Here it comes."

Wilson ignored that. "A few months ago, Dr. Evans hired a new fellow." He eyed House, wondering what kind of monkey wrench this piece of news would throw into the plan. House wouldn't be pleased about dealing with a stranger, and a fellow not of his own choosing.

"Specialty?"

"Cardiology. Hopkins, top of her class. Name's Devyani Rajghatta." Wilson concentrated on breathing normally, not showing his apprehension. What would it be like for House, to see another young female face in the place of Cameron's?

House swiped his hand over his face. "Oh, she's gonna love this, isn't she? Considering what happened to her predecessor."

It was harder to read House's voice these days, with the damage to it. Was the strain Wilson thought he heard physical or emotional?

Very quietly, Wilson said, "Her predecessor was brutally murdered by thugs, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. House, you were another victim, not the perpetrator. Everyone knows that."

House leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Who voted against me?"

"Huh?" Wilson tried to shift gears. "Who cares --"

"No, just tell me."

"There was only one no vote. It was Pevey. No surprise there. He hates everyone."

Sharp blue eyes pinned his. "That's it? Just one objection?"

"Disappointed? Your reputation has taken a big hit. There's another challenge for you to take on."


	7. Chapter 5

A/N -- I apologize for taking so long to update, but real life keeps intruding. Thanks for your patience. I know House has been scarce in these chapters, but the stage is being set for his return to work and then he'll be front-and-center. Keep the faith!

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Chapter five

Cuddy picked up the phone to make her last call. "Dr. Rajghatta? It's Dr. Cuddy. I'm calling an informal meeting this afternoon at two, at the Royal Botanica club on Lakeshore Drive, do you know it? Good. Doctors Chase and Foreman will be there. Drinks are on me. Dr. Evans is aware that you'll be gone, and after the meeting you three can take the rest of the day off." She nodded. "Great, see you there."

----------------------------------------------------

She waited for them in one of the club's private meeting areas. The Botanica was ritzy and overpriced, but she wanted to hold this discussion outside of the hospital.

Wilson came in, natty in his suit and tie, nodding to the waiter who ushered him into the secluded nook. "Kids on their way?" he asked, taking a seat in one of the comfortable chairs. The waiter took his drink order and left them to themselves.

"Yep. I don't think they have a clue what this is about."

He smiled at her. "They will when they see me here."

--------------------------------------------------

Foreman, Rajghatta and Chase arrived together and were brought to the meeting room. They all exchanged greetings, Chase and Foreman clearly trying to reconcile Wilson's presence at this ad hoc meeting. Once everyone was settled comfortably in chairs and their drink orders taken, Cuddy took point.

"I asked you three here because even though this is business, it is also ... off the record," she began. "I want us to have a candid talk." Meeting their eyes, she said, "I've offered House his job back. He's agreed to a two-month trial period."

That definitely got their attention. Foreman traded an incredulous glance with Chase.

Cuddy kept hold of the reins. "The board has agreed to it, so it's a done deal."

Wilson cleared his throat and leaned forward a bit. "I'm the one who suggested this meeting so that we can discuss any concerns you might have. I want this to go as smoothly as possible."

"Dr. Wilson..." Chase spoke quietly, choosing his words with care. "When I saw Dr. House a couple of months ago ... there's no way he's ready to go back to work."

Nodding, Wilson waved a hand. "I know, I know. He'd just had ligament surgery. Anesthesia always makes him sick, that's why he looked so thin. He's better now. Stronger."

At Foreman's skeptical look, Wilson sighed. "That's why we're here, guys. To talk about this frankly and informally. This meeting is completely off the record. I hope I can answer your concerns and get House back at his job. He needs it. Needs to put his mind to work."

The waiter returned with their drinks, and when he was gone, Foreman looked at Wilson and Cuddy. "I came to PPTH as a fellow specifically to work with House. Of course I want him back. But you think he can do it? You don't want to be setting him up to fail."

"There's some risk," Cuddy admitted. "I think what House can contribute outweighs that risk. And he's still healing. Given time, he'll get better."

Wilson nodded. "Look... you have some idea what he's gone through. House really doesn't want any attention, or any fuss made. It's going to be hard on him. He's using crutches now, and since he's recuperating from the surgery it's hard for him to walk. He won't be treating patients directly -- like he ever did that much before," Wilson acknowledged, seeing Foreman's eyebrow rising. "It's just that now, well... he's infamous. House doesn't want people gawking at him. Dr. Cuddy and I have talked it over, come up with some ideas. Hear us out and tell me what you think."

Cuddy took her cue. "I want to make this as easy as I can for Dr. House. Of course, Dr. Rajghatta is a diagnostics fellow. Chase, Foreman, the two of you would be more active in making sure the department runs smoothly."

Foreman cocked his head. "You mean doing all the scut work? Listen, I'm all for House coming back, but it's not fair to us or him to make him just a figurehead."

"No, don't misunderstand, House would be your boss," Cuddy corrected him. "He would take full responsibility for the department. We're not just handing him a cushy job title with no responsibilities." She sighed. "Remember the little girl with Gaucher disease? _That's_ what House does. And I want him back, in his office in my hospital, pulling those rabbits out of his hat. He proved he can still do it. He can do his job, if we give him a few accommodations."

Devi Rajghatta looked at the serious faces around her. "I've heard stories about Dr. House. About the way he can figure out a diagnosis with almost nothing to go on. I'd love the chance to learn from him."

Chase was frowning at the floor. He glanced up at Cuddy and Wilson. "This is off the record...?"

Wilson nodded. "Absolutely."

"When Foreman and I followed you to his place, well... House was... jumpy," Chase said delicately. "I presume he's suffering from PTSD?"

"Yeah, of course he is." Wilson hated to have to admit it. It felt a little like a betrayal, but he had to be truthful. "But with no patient contact and limited contact with hospital personnel, he'll manage. The fact that he knows you two is a big plus."

Foreman considered. The fellowship under House had been prestigious, at least until Cameron's murder hit the news media. Although House's genius as a diagnostician couldn't be denied, after his confession to the police Foreman and Chase had found their own reputations tainted by association. Neither man was considered complicit in the crime, but notoriety would follow them wherever they went. They had worked for House, after all, and the gossip was to be expected.

Sympathetic to their situation, Cuddy had offered them suitable positions as attendings after their fellowships when the job offers that should have poured in for them failed to materialize. Although Foreman could have gone to Neurology, and Chase to the emergency department, ICU or NICU, she had asked them to remain with Diagnostics and use their skills there.

Since Thompson's death and House's exoneration, the job offers were beginning to come in, but neither man had yet chosen to leave Princeton-Plainsborough.

Now, with House's innocence official and his reputation and position soon to be restored, Foreman could work with him as an attending, helping run the department and making some of his own decisions. The thought was tempting. All it would take was a few sensational cases followed up by journal articles for the medical world to shrug off any lingering questions about House and embrace him as a legend once again. A year or two of that, Foreman figured, and he could write his own ticket to a rosy future.

He looked at Chase, who seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

Wilson leaned forward. "Dr. Cuddy mentioned accommodations," he began, pausing to make sure he had everyone's attention. "We're not claiming that House is fully recovered. What happened to him --" he stopped a moment, then lowered his voice. "Some things heal very slowly, if ever. You know what came out in the trials."

Clearing his throat, Wilson continued. "He's in a lot more pain these days. Most of the bones in his body have been broken at least once. Internal injuries, joint damage. I'm telling you these things without House's knowledge because you have to know. He's on a strict pain management regimen. Three to four Vicodin per day, other non-opoid pain meds. But there are days he can barely function for the pain. When it's that bad he gets a morphine patch. And on those days he probably won't be at work."

Cuddy nodded. "And he's undergoing various surgeries. I've told him he can have days off as needed. It's something you'll need to expect."

She studied the younger doctors' grave faces. "In addition, the Diagnostics department will be moving. You know part of the first floor is being remodeled. Diagnostics will shift down there, near the emergency department."

Chase thought about it. "If he parks in the ER docs' area, it'll be a lot shorter walk for him."

"Right. And his office won't have glass walls. Dr. House has earned the right to some privacy. Bear in mind that sometimes he needs to be alone," Cuddy told them.

Devi cleared her throat softly. "Dr. Cuddy, Dr. Wilson, does Dr. House feel he's ready to come back?"

For a moment, neither of them replied. Then Wilson exhaled a quiet breath. "He needs this. House ... his instinct is to hide. To protect himself. But he knows that would be a waste of his life. He's prepared to try this, and I'm asking all of you to help him succeed."

"And part of that means you'll need to run interference for him." Cuddy drew a breath and shook her hair back, framing her words. "House coming back here isn't going to be a simple thing. People are naturally curious. His story has been all over the news, everyone knows at least a little of what went on. It's worse than the Terry Schiavo case," she huffed. "And God help us, some idiot's even writing a book about it. I don't want House accosted by rubberneckers and the morbidly curious. I mean, that's why he's hiding now. I'll handle my end of his transition back to the hospital, but you three are a big part of making it work out. Be careful how much you tell your co-workers. Don't spread gossip or say a word to the press. I want everything to be as normal and calm as possible. For at least the first few weeks, try to be a buffer for House."

Leaning back in his chair, Chase said, "You mentioned the press?"

Cuddy just shook her head. "The best I can do is delay the hiring announcement for a few days after House starts work. After that, I plan to quietly beef up security at all the entrances. There isn't much else I can do, legally."

Foreman made a face. "It'll be a circus."

"We'll try to avoid that. If you three will help shield him at work, maybe it will blow over quickly enough."

Wilson looked a little bleak at Cuddy's optimism, but forged ahead. "All of you know House can still be a huge asset to this hospital. He can save lives. To me, that makes all the extra effort worthwhile."

Foreman raised his palm. "You don't have to try to sell me. You said it just now -- House can save lives no one else can. That's good enough for me."

Chase shrugged. "I learned a lot from House. Truthfully, I felt cheated not being able to finish my fellowship with him. I'd be honored to work with him again."

Cuddy turned her gaze to Devi. "Dr. Rajghatta? You're the only one who doesn't have a personal stake in this. Do you have any concerns about working for Dr. House?"

Devi's dark eyes studied the carpet for a few seconds. "I've heard Chase and Foreman's stories about him. If he's half as good as they say, this would be a great opportunity for me. But I'd like to know the truth about what really happened with ... with Dr. Cameron."

The effect of hearing that name was palpable on the group.

Wilson clasped his hands between his knees, dropping his head forward. "He didn't kill her," he said, so softly she had to strain to hear. "But he was forced to watch."

Foreman blinked and looked away. Chase stared at his hands, mouth set, his face carefully blank. They knew House hadn't done it, but little else.

Cuddy added, "Thompson told him to confess to the crime. If he hadn't confessed, gone through the trial and prison, one of us would have had to pay the price."

Chase suddenly got up, anger flashing across his fine features as he moved away a few steps.

Wilson watched him carefully. "Chase? What is it?"

A terse shake of his head was the only answer for a moment. Then, in a low voice, Chase muttered, "He'd come in with splints or bandages or a cast. Some days he could barely walk. Bruises on his face. He always put it down to an accident or a bar fight." He hissed out a breath. "If we'd just known --"

"If he'd told you anything else, you'd be dead," Wilson reminded him.

Chase shook his head. "What were we, blind? Stupid? I never suspected any of what was really going on."

"Who would? Who'd ever imagine it?" Wilson stood up too. "House knew what would happen if anyone found out. He kept all of us in the dark, pushed us away. Look, it's done and can't be changed. House survived it. He's been exonerated, he's getting stronger, and he's starting to pull his life back together. Coming back here is a big step for him." He gestured helplessly. "I know he isn't the same. I don't know if he ever will be who he used to be. But one thing hasn't changed. He needs to work. To actively contribute, no matter how much he would have denied it in the old days."

Chase's shoulders relaxed a little, and Wilson tried to smile. "Work with him. Help him adjust. Leave him alone when he needs privacy. And if there's anything that concerns you, anything at all, page me. Anytime, I don't care. He'll usually let me help him."


	8. Chapter 6

The spokes whirred as the two wheels sped along the asphalt path, trees going by in a blur. The sound of the 10-speed's tires and the rider's breathing were the only sounds, until a dry voice said, "Funny old world, isn't it?"

The accent was Australian, by way of Czechoslovakia.

Chase let the bike coast, catching his breath. That unwelcome mental voice had sapped his exhilaration.

The bike trail was his favorite, at least on the infrequent occasions when he had time to ride. The day was chilly, meaning only the diehard enthusiasts were out, and he had passed them a long way back.

The bike coasted slowly to a stop, and Chase moved off the path, still breathing hard. Being alone out in the open air was exactly what he'd needed after that meeting. Losing himself in speed and physical exertion helped push away the knot of mixed emotions that had coiled in his gut when Cuddy had said House was coming back.

The image in his mind was still the House of years before -- snide, arrogant, brilliant and half-mad. Chase had tried, with some success, not to think about the House he'd seen a couple of months ago. He didn't know that man. Hadn't wanted to consider the circumstances that had changed the House he'd known into that stranger.

The news of Cameron's death had hit him hard. He and Foreman had been called to Cuddy's office, interviewed by the police right away. Cuddy had given them a few days off work, but Chase had stayed glued to the TV news, in too much shock to make any sense of it. Foreman had called him, tense and still reeling. Neither of them could picture House actually having killed Cameron.

And Chase had finally had to wrap his mind around the idea that Allison Cameron was dead. Gone, forever. He wasn't sure, but thought maybe a part of him had loved her. Having sex with someone isn't love, he knew that. But he'd grown accustomed to her smile, her company, her steady presence at work. Even her inevitable surprised reaction whenever House managed to top his previous record for callousness, coldness or crudity.

It was Foreman who had put his thoughts into words. "I've known people who have killed. Who are able to kill. You can see it in their eyes. House doesn't have it. He didn't kill Cameron, no matter what he says. He just ... couldn't have."

The hardest part was having no focus for the rage and the grief. To everyone else at the hospital and the public at large, House's confession sealed his guilt. Having a scapegoat made the chaos manageable, or at least survivable. People gossiped, rumors flew, even though it was frowned upon and administrators discouraged even the mention of House's name. Foreman and Chase found themselves forced into silence. There were some who didn't believe House's confession, among them Cuddy and of course, Wilson. The four of them felt like a secret leper colony in the hospital, unable to proclaim or prove House's innocence, and having to hear the harsh judgments of everyone else.

Chase leaned against a tree, closing his eyes.

His world had turned inside out again when the truth had come out. Chase had retreated into a cocoon of shock at the cascade of events set in motion by Thompson's shooting.

House had not killed Cameron. He had, in fact, been living in his own personal hell to protect her and all the others whose names had been written into that contract. One of those names had been Robert Chase, M.D.

Chase had felt he would suffocate under the weight of his fury and impotent outrage. House was innocent of any wrongdoing. The thought tormented him that when House had been most in need of compassion, of prayer, everyone had been wishing him dead.

And today he'd been told House had been forced to watch as Cameron was beaten to death.

Chase circled the tree, putting his back to the path and letting his legs give way, feeling the rough bark dig through his sweatshirt and into his back as he slid down to sit at the base of the tree.

He remembered the news coverage of the trial, the one concerning Thompson's organization. A good part of the testimony had concerned House -- those who had hurt him, or arranged for him to be hurt, or pulled strings at the prison so that his abuse would go unnoticed. House's own testimony at that trial had been kept under court seal, but enough came out via the press to sketch a horrific picture. The second trial, House's own, had also been barred from the press. Still, enough was revealed to ink in the first sketch a bit more.

Cuddy had again given Chase and Foreman personal leave during that time. Chase had spent much of it in a daze, trying to process this flood of information. If such things could happen in the world, where was God? Why was the man responsible for Allison Cameron's death now beyond retribution?

Chase had stopped trying to sort through his feelings about House. He'd always admired House's wild brilliance and the courage of his convictions. That admiration had been liberally mixed with anger at House's predilection for being an ass, and sympathy for the man's chronic pain.

After seeing House again so recently, there was pity and sorrow, too.

He drew up his knees and rested his head on them, nearly groaning aloud. House's return to PPTH would be yet another upheaval in all their lives. Chase felt emotionally bankrupt after the turmoil of the past few years, mentally and physically drained. Working with House had been a roller-coaster ride the first time. He couldn't imagine what the future would bring.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

In the silent apartment, the pencil's scratchings were the only noise. Foreman worked slowly, taking his time, building the image first in his memory, then on the paper.

The old man had been a clinic patient with a gash on his arm needing two stitches. Foreman had been struck by the man's face -- it spoke of patience, humor, and a long life well-lived. He'd treated the man's wound, committing the weathered face to memory as the octogenarian had regaled him with one wild story after another.

Now he had the opportunity to draw the man's portrait. It felt like taking a slice of time and making it permanent.

Foreman had been drawing since he was a kid, and found he had a natural bent for it. It kept his hands busy and gave his mind free rein to wander.

There wasn't much to think about, really. Everything had been covered fairly well at the meeting. Evans was moving on and someone had to replace him. No matter what his ego told him, Foreman realized neither he nor Chase had the chops yet to head the department. And House was now a free man, on the mend, and clearly the logical choice. Sure, his mental and physical status was still borderline, but Foreman could see Wilson's and Cuddy's reasoning. Putting someone back in a familiar environment had a stabilizing effect. A win-win situation, if House was truly ready to come back.

The pencil moved deftly over the paper, roughing in the shape and angle of the old man's face.

The new situation at work wouldn't be easy for any of them.

Over the last few years he had grieved for Cameron, more deeply than he'd ever show, but he had never believed her death had been House's doing. He couldn't explain his conviction in the face of House's confession or lack of any evidence pointing to another killer. He'd just known. And the truth had eventually proven him right.

He felt no sense of vindication. Justice had prevailed, although pretty much too late for House. His health was wrecked, his emotional and mental state fragile. Wilson had a point -- going back to work was about all he had left. It was where he could still leave his mark and do some good in whatever time he had left. House was tough, but the ordeal he'd been through had surely taken years off his life. Foreman had seen more silver in his hair than the passing of three years had warranted, and the bones of his face had seemed to push against his skin. House had looked ill, and tired, and beaten.

And yet ... Foreman had felt the force of his gaze, the intensity of the mind behind those eyes. Something had kept him alive through all the pain and despair.

A tiny smile made his lips twitch. Maybe somewhere, deep inside and safely hidden, the old manipulative bastard was still in there.

He turned his attention to the portrait taking shape on his sketch pad, and swore softly.

He'd given the old man House's eyes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After wrapping her hair in a towel, Devi pulled on her favorite soft, threadbare robe and padded out of the steamy bath to fix some tea.

She didn't get a lot of free time, and the luxury of a whole afternoon and evening to herself was a welcome escape.

Inhaling the aroma of the hot darjeeling, she took her cup to the kitchen table and booted up her laptop. Email first -- filthy jokes from her former college roommate that made her laugh, a hello note from her father. Junk mail -- mostly Viagra and Cialis offers, and she rolled her eyes -- and a message from her fiance in Boston. Their planned weekend together was still on, at least so far.

She wrote some return messages, then checked her stock portfolio and the latest news updates. And before she really thought about it, she'd called up an image search engine and typed 'Gregory House.'

Not an uncommon name in the United States, she mused as photos began to pop up on her screen. But she knew the face she was looking for.

That one. She'd been shown this photo before. It had been taken at a conference in New York five years ago.

There was Foreman, and Chase, and a woman she knew to be Dr. Allison Cameron. And a little to the side, moving out of the frame, the tall, older man with a cane. House. A memorable face, neither handsome nor homely, the stark features somehow striking a balance between the two.

There were few photos of this Gregory House. Most of what the search turned up was the photo all the papers had published, a surprisingly flattering shot from the hospital's Web site.

And of course, artists' courtroom sketches. None of those flattered the man at all.

She studied the images, not sure what she was looking for. Perhaps seeking some sense of this man who was going to be her new boss.

Foreman and Chase had told her so many stories, surreptitiously, when no one could overhear. Devi knew of his sharp tongue, his dislike of people and patients in particular. She'd been told about the infarction, the chronic pain, the Vicodin addiction. The lengths he'd go to diagnose a patient and save a life, or just to avoid clinic duty. Legendary fights with Dr. Cuddy. House's penchant for bets and practical jokes and his stream-of-consciousness lying.

It was hard to weave all that together with his reputation as a wunderkind diagnostician and get any real idea of who he was.

She sat back and sipped her cooling tea. It appeared that she would soon have the chance to judge for herself. Devi knew she, too, would be judged. If she couldn't meet Dr. House's exacting standards, she could lose her fellowship. It would be a big blow to her career plans.

But if she _was_ good enough ...

Her mother had always warned her that worrying was just borrowing trouble. Devi hoped she wasn't walking blindly into a minefield. Whatever happened would happen. She'd keep her eyes open, her mouth shut, and try to prepare herself for anything.


	9. Chapter 7

Wilson got home late, a little tired but pleased with his purchases. He set down the bags he carried and turned on a couple of lights. Shucking his coat and working his tie loose, he looked around the tidy place. He'd bought the duplex townhouse when he'd taken on the duty of caring for House. He'd already been divorced for the third time, living in an apartment that was too small for two people. And apartment living wasn't ideal for House's situation at the time. House had needed round-the-clock care, and his recovery was often marked by lots of noise.

Wilson had found the duplex on the market and bought it. He and House had lived in one of the two-bedroom units and he had leased the other. Once House was better, Wilson had taken the other unit. The arrangement was close to perfect, giving each man his own space, but so close that only a wall separated their homes. House had the security of Wilson being near. He was better, but a long way from being well. And Wilson felt just as urgent a need to be near his friend. Beyond the simple fact that House needed help, to Wilson, it was even more important that House never have to feel alone and abandoned again.

Wilson's gaze went to the cracked and mended globe on his bookshelf. For some reason he hadn't thrown it out. It had been House's, and like its former owner, it was battered and worse for wear from its travails.

It had taken months for House's mind to heal. That time had been an ordeal for them both -- little sleep or peace for either of them as the nightmare of House's last few years had overwhelmed him. Wilson had come to understand the mechanics of the process fairly well. Unable to cope with the enormity of the anguish and pain and all-encompassing fear, House's personality fled to safety, hiding in the furthest corners of his own mind in an effort to preserve itself while the desperate emotions played themselves out.

Much of that time House had simply turned 'off.' He didn't speak, didn't react, obeyed commands like an automaton. He ignored pain and hunger and the world in front of him.

In stark contrast were the times the misery surged up from his subconscious, or in reaction to something that penetrated his mental shields. Panic, fury or helpless despair would pour out of him in an uncontrolled flood. Sometimes House would scream his rage until his voice was gone, lurching around blindly, striking out and destroying everything he could reach until exhaustion bore him down to unconsciousness. The globe on Wilson's shelf was a casualty of one such frenzy.

Yet even those dangerous, mindless furies had been better than the memories. When those came back to haunt him, House would run and try to hide, tripping over nonexistent shackles, cringing in a corner or a closet as his mind helplessly replayed some nightmare scene of torment. In such a state he could have no shame, and tears would flow freely as he tried to defend himself from remembered blows and attacks, crying out in pain -- or worse, Wilson thought, obeying a command to ask for more.

Wilson had cried too, tears of anger and frustration and sorrow as he tried to get through to his friend, soothing and assuring and comforting House as he suffered.

Whichever way the madness came, it always ended with House panting, exhausted and shaking and dripping sweat, one fist bunched in Wilson's shirt as the tears helped them both to heal.

James would hold his friend until the ragged breathing evened out and the tears slowed, waiting patiently, compassionately for the bone-weariness to take House into oblivion, listening for the soft growl of House's snores.

Taking House out during his 'salad days' had been risky, but Wilson wanted to show him that the world still existed. He was sure that something, somewhere, sometime, would surely spark House to come back to himself.

It was during one of those forays out of the townhouse that Wilson had had an epiphany. He had taken House to a small diner, and when a waitress had come silently to their table House had not recoiled from the sudden sound of her voice. He had started, but there had been no real fear. Wilson had been amazed by that lack of reaction, until he'd come to realize that women had been completely excluded from House's torment. He was less nervous around women and didn't appear to feel threatened by them, as far as Wilson could tell.

House already had a 'keeper,' a huge, gentle giant named Clarence, but the big man had a wedding coming up and plans to move to Baltimore. Wilson had been fretting over finding a replacement. Clarence had provided House a sense of protection and security, yet was genial and soft-spoken and very good at keeping House calm. It was vital to Wilson not to screw up that newfound glimmer of safety taking root in House's fitful mind.

James had promptly made some calls and found a home health nurse who came highly recommended.

Linda McAllister was a big woman, a veritable Valkyrie who had the physical strength to handle House. Yet her voice was calm and quiet, her sense of humor warped, and her medical credentials were spotless.

She'd taken an immediate liking to House, vacant as he was, and in turn House had no reaction to her at all. Wilson had hired her on the spot.

Linda took excellent care of House when he was in her charge. She dispensed meds wisely, helped him convalesce and didn't mind a little cooking or cleaning, or her role of companion to a catatonic patient.

It had not taken long for Wilson to realize House was in good hands with her, and his days were freed to gradually ease back into his own practice.

Best of all, when House had healed enough to come back to the real world, Linda had shown herself more than capable of dealing with him. The two got along famously under cover of snark, snipes, sexual innuendo and general abuse.

Linda cared for House during the day. She fixed meals, kept an eye on him, monitored his physical and mental and emotional states, but she served a bigger purpose than that. Linda's presence also kept him in step with life outside the four walls of his home. She eased his fears, kept him company and served as a cheerleader, coach and commentator for every step House took toward normality.

Just as Wilson himself did.

There were plenty of nights he still slept over on House's side of the duplex, when the nightmares visited or the pain was bad, or House needed monitoring after a surgery. It had been a major victory getting the stubborn ass to agree to take an anti-depressant, but the medication was helping.

James shook his head and took a deep breath, wondering how much time he'd lost musing over the past. Thank God it _was_ the past.

Wilson grabbed his cell and dialed House's number, automatically waiting for the message and beep. House screened his calls and would not answer his door unless he knew who was there.

He and Wilson both pretended it was only because he was hiding from the media hounds.

"House? I'm home. Pick up."

The line clicked immediately. "Yeah."

"I brought Chinese. You hungry? Linda still there?"

"Nurse Ratched left an hour ago. And I'm starving."

Wilson grinned. "Sounds like she made you do some PT today."

"Just an excuse for her to get her hands on me. Are you coming or not? Use your key, I'm not getting up."

The line went dead.

Still smiling, Wilson grabbed the food and the other bags and headed next door.

------------------------------

"It's me," he called as he let himself in. He found House stretched out on the couch, a blanket over him, the TV remote resting on his chest.

"I'll get drinks and plates." He felt House's eyes on him as he set down the shopping bags by the hall table.

"What's in those?"

Rummaging around in the kitchen, Wilson stacked plates and utensils and snagged a couple of beers from the fridge, grinning over the sheer reliability of House's intense curiosity.

"I'll show you later. Let's eat."

Arranging everything on the coffee table, Wilson began opening up the food cartons. "Fried rice, dim sum, rangoon, lo mein, some entrees ... how's the foot?" He nodded at the ortho boot encasing House's right leg, from knee to foot.

"It's fine," House muttered, reaching for a beer. They used to eat Chinese takeout with chopsticks, but now House's fingers couldn't hold them well and his hands were too unsteady. In solidarity, Wilson used forks and spoons too.

Taking a bite of his spring roll, Wilson chewed contentedly for a moment. So much of the bad stuff seemed to be past them now, and just the simple act of sitting and eating a meal with House, talking with him, seeing him at home behind his eyes, made Wilson happy.

"Construction's really picked up on the first floor. Couple of weeks, tops, and it'll be ready." He watched House take a long swallow of his beer. "Evans left yesterday. Cuddy's sending diagnostics referrals to Princeton General until you're back in the saddle."

House reached into the bag of rangoon and grabbed one, fumbling it a moment in his maimed fingers before biting into the crisp wonton with a loud crunch.

Wilson sighed. "House..."

"I said I'd go back, Jimmy, and I will. You and I both know there's a hospital-wide pool on how long I'll last. Smart money's on one week." He considered. "If they'll let you in on the pool, we could rig it."

Gesturing with the stub of his spring roll, Wilson asked, "Is it too soon? Is that it? There's no problem if you'd rather start with half-days."

House was staring at the floor, unconsciously rubbing his thumb under his left eyebrow, along one of the bones that had been fractured during his stay in prison.

"Greg. Talk to me. Please."

Those guarded eyes hesitantly came up for a couple of seconds to meet Wilson's.

House shrugged one shoulder. "You want me to tell you I'm ready for this? I don't know if I am. But I have to do _something_. It's like I'm in limbo." His rough voice held a far-off note of desperation. "I don't want to go out. Can't stand staying in. I'm trapped no matter what I do."

"What you're dealing with is normal. Doesn't make it easy, but it _is_ normal."

"In an abnormal sort of way."

"You're getting better every day. Boredom's your enemy now." Wilson polished off his roll and reached for the dim sum. "Besides, like you keep insisting, it's only for two months."

House let his gaze fall on the stack of medical journals he'd collected, piled on the end table. He was a good three years behind in his knowledge. There would be new tests, new technology -- hell, new diseases and new cures by now.

Funny. Thompson's craziness had brought his world to a screeching halt, as if time itself had been suspended. For everyone else, the Earth had continued to spin.

"Cuddy's a sucker."

Wilson chewed his mouthful of lo mein, warily curious. "Is she?" He pointed at the food. "Eat."

Poking at the carton of szechuan beef, House nodded. "She hired me the first time out of guilt. This time it's pity. Some people never learn."

"Yeah. Heaven forbid your skills and reputation should count for anything."

"My skills are out of date, and what reputation are you talking about? Miss Congeniality of the solitary wing?"

Wilson put down his fork and stared at his friend. "Who are you, and what have you done with Greg House?" Off House's scowl, Wilson said, "Where's that towering ego that crushes everything in its path? Doctor 'I'm the best at what I do'?"

House looked away, not knowing how to answer. Over the last few years he'd learned a lot about doubt. His body and his mind had both failed him. What else was there that he could count on?

When Wilson saw House turn away, his lined face impassive, mouth set in a bloodless straight line, he knew he'd inadvertently hit a sore spot.

"House, we all second-guess ourselves. Maybe you never did before, but the rest of us do. Cuddy offered you this job again for the same reason as the first time -- you _are_ the best at what you do. That hasn't changed."

"Everything else has."

Wilson heard the hoarse whisper, saw the way House held himself, so still and withdrawn.

"Yeah. A lot has changed." Wilson kept his voice soft, letting his words insinuate themselves into the silence. "But not the important things, House. Not who you are." He got up and went to his friend, dropping a gentle hand onto the thin shoulder. "You're still the biggest ass on the planet."

After a moment House looked up at him, then his mouth curled into a grudging smile. "Yeah."

----------------------------------------

"So what's in the bags?"

Wilson shoved the last of the food into the fridge and grabbed two more beers, shutting the door with an elbow.

"Well, I know you've had your eye on that inflatable sex doll ..."

"Aw, Wilson, you shouldn't have."

Handing him the beer bottle, Wilson obligingly fetched the shopping bags and brought them to the couch. "Clothes." He got a dubious scowl.

"You already bought me clothes. Back when I was crazy."

"Yep. You've been pretty hard on 'em, too. For your first days back at work, I thought you needed something really sharp." He pulled out garments and layed them out. "New shirt -- sky blue, Cuddy's favorite color. New jacket, Armani. And I got it them in a long, so the cuffs won't ride up. New pair of cords to go with. And --" with a flourish he held up the last two items, "a couple of ties."

House eyed the strips of cloth. "Now there's a waste of your money." He reached for the slacks, inspecting the tag.

"C'mon, you have to try on this stuff."

"They'll fit."

"Come on, House. I need to know. If they don't fit I can take them back. I'll help you get the ortho boot off."

Wilson understood House's reluctance. Most days it hurt him just to move, and now he'd have to be extra careful of the healing surgical sites on his knee and foot.

But there was more than the issue of physical pain.

House hated that his body told the story of the abuse Thompson had heaped upon him. He could shower, dress and even shave without once looking at himself. On the occasions when he did have to look, like to change a dressing, he'd apparently found a way to do it without really seeing.

And when House dressed himself, he covered everything but his face and hands. No more shorts, T-shirts or bare feet in his own home, even when it was uncomfortably warm.

Wilson only hoped that time would ease some of his friend's misery.


	10. Chapter 8

Cuddy drove the familiar streets to the hospital. It was past 11 p.m. on a Wednesday night, and traffic was minimal. She couldn't help glancing over at the passenger seat, at the silhouette of House's profile.

"The remodeling is almost finished. They've done great work."

She thought maybe he nodded, but it was hard to tell in the dark. He'd been mostly silent aside from greeting her when she'd picked him up. Wilson had offered to come along, but House had spoken to him softly before getting into Cuddy's Lexus, and Wilson had smiled and waved them off.

All three of them had agreed upon the time and date of House's clandestine tour of his new office. House didn't want to attract any notice, and Wednesday nights were usually pretty quiet in the ER wing, the Diagnostics department's new home. Chances were good Cuddy could sneak House in and out virtually unseen.

After the board had voted to rehire House, word had spread throughout the hospital. Cuddy had successfully kept his start date a secret, although everyone was keeping a close eye on the remodeling. Scuttlebutt said that when the wing was formally pronounced complete, House would return.

Cuddy had planned ahead. The diagnostics offices would be finished -- except for the names on the doors -- ahead of the rest of the project, and House would actually start before the remainder of the wing was completed. She hoped that would give him one or two days' respite.

"Penny for your thoughts," she murmured. She could hear the sound of his palm against the denim of his jeans as he absently massaged his right thigh. Cuddy was a bit surprised when he answered her.

"Evans' fellow. What do you know about her?"

"Dr. Rajghatta? She went to Hopkins, top honors. Frank Evans was impressed with her qualifications."

"Exactly what Wilson said. Tell me something new."

Cuddy shrugged. "Tell me what you're fishing for, House." She felt his gaze for a moment, and then he looked away again at the passing streetlights.

"She came here to work with Evans. Didn't bargain on getting me instead."

When he said nothing more, she glanced at him. "Dr. Rajghatta is probably concerned about whether you'll let her keep her fellowship position. Other than that, she doesn't have any issues or hangups about working for you. Do you?" Into the silence, Cuddy sighed. "I really need to know if this is going to be a problem for you."

"Why would it be a problem?"

"Oh, well, where to start?" Cuddy began with more than a little sarcasm. "How about, she's not your choice, she's Frank Evans' pick?"

House gave a snort. "I can handle Evans' sloppy seconds."

"Great. That sounds promising." Cuddy turned left onto the hospital's main street. "What about that she's ..." she searched for a diplomatic way to put it, but House interrupted.

"That she's in Cameron's place?" His hoarse voice put a harsh edge to the words, but Cuddy couldn't tell if he meant it that way. "Not her fault."

She drove around past the ER bay to the staff entrance. She braked and pointed to the parking slot nearest the door. Fresh paint spelled out his name.

"Nice touch," House had to admit. "But a little overdone for my two-month stint."

Cuddy shrugged again. "It's just paint." She pulled her car into his spot and dawdled in getting out and putting up her keys, giving House time to get his crutches, position them properly and get himself out of the car. He came around the Lexus and followed her to the staff entrance. She punched in her code at the door, and the automatic mechanism whooshed them open. A considerate feature for someone dealing with crutches, he noted.

Once inside, Cuddy veered right off the main hall into a side corridor, leading him past doors to the ER staff lounge, showers and locker room, to another door. This one was wood, with a vertical window beside it veiled by blinds. The next door down from it was glass, with glass walls.

Cuddy looked up at him. "Your office. And conference room," she added, gesturing to the glass-walled area. She held up a keycard. "Your key will be ready tomorrow. I'll give it to Wilson to pass along." Looking down the corridor they'd just traversed, she said, "No more than twenty steps from the outer door."

At the moment he was feeling every single one of them -- not that he wanted Cuddy to know that.

"I'm impressed. Can we go in now?"

The smell of new paint, varnish and carpet greeted them when she opened the door for him. Cuddy watched House take a few steps inside and come to a stop, swaying slightly on his crutches as he looked around. A secretive smile curved her lips as she witnessed the payoff to her and Wilson's intricate scheming.

The white canvas floor-to-ceiling lamp was placed near the orange Eames chair. The desk, shelves and credenza were new, but on them were all the other items Wilson had retrieved from storage -- the marble mortar and pestle, the Magic 8-ball, the scales, the oversized tennis ball, even the antique phrenology bust.

His sharp gaze swept over every detail. House hadn't really given any thought to his old possessions, but here they were... no doubt lovingly catalogued and stored by Wilson after House had been arrested.

The office itself was a few feet larger than his old one, and the furniture was arranged the same. Door to the conference room in the same place. Where the door to the balcony had been in his old office, there was now a door leading to a small courtyard. But this office had a new door, behind his desk and opposite the courtyard door. He swung himself over to it and twisted the knob.

The door opened to a half bath, large enough to maneuver a wheelchair in.

House leaned against the door jamb, a little overwhelmed. The private bath spoke volumes to him. He knew it was Cuddy and Wilson's idea. Only the higher administrators had private baths. As far as he knew, none of the doctors or surgeons on staff did. They had done this for him alone, simply out of kindness, to spare him pain and exertion and to protect his privacy.

No doubt Cuddy had had to find some way to justify it to the board, and House had a feeling she'd fought hard to do this for him. She was sticking her neck out to return him to his old job, and the bath was both a bribe to entice him and a promise that she had his back.

And the office itself ... Wilson had kept his possessions safe, and had doubtless jumped at the chance to return them to what he'd consider their rightful places.

He bowed his head, struggling to find words that might somehow acknowledge their faith in him, and his gratitude for their foresight.

He heard Cuddy's smile when she murmured, "You'd better sit down before you keel over."

Nodding, he turned and crutched the few steps to the desk chair, lowering himself into it with a soft groan of relief. Leaning the crutches against the edge of the desk freed his hands to gingerly massage his knee, near the sutures that were stinging like hell. A twinge from the damaged joint woke echoes up to his thigh and down to the reset bones in that foot.

"You okay?" Cuddy asked.

"Just spiffy," he grunted, managing to open his eyes as the pain began to fade a bit.

Cuddy slid some papers across the desk. "The usual employment forms. We might as well get these filled out now."

He nodded again, taking the pen she held out to him and settling it in his awkward fingers.

"You look those over. I'll be back in a couple of minutes, okay?" Cuddy walked to the door and paused, looking back.

House was skimming the first form, pen in hand, when he noticed she hadn't gone out the door. He looked up, questioning.

Her expression softened into a smile. "It looks right, you know. You, at your desk, in your office, in my hospital. You'll probably never know how wrong it felt when you weren't here."

His thoughtful gaze followed her as she opened the door and stepped out, shutting it behind her.

-----------------------------------------------

His handwriting had gone from bad to worse, House thought as he filled in the forms. Current residence. Previous residence ... well, that had been the state prison. He wrote in the name. He'd gotten through most of the forms by the time Cuddy came back, juggling an armload of items.

"What's all that?"

She dumped everything on top of the desk. "First, a blood draw kit, for your employee medical. I figured you wouldn't want to go the the lab during business hours for it."

There it was again, that pervasive kindness that he found so foreign. He had to find some way to acknowledge the favors being done for him. "Yeah, uh... thanks, Cuddy."

She began pulling out the syringe and disposable tourniquet. "Roll up your sleeve."

"No. I'll do it." He held out his hand. They both looked at the bent, trembling fingers. "I said I'll do it," he growled, making a loose fist to hide the worst of it, his gaze forcing her to look at his eyes instead.

"House. I've seen your arms. Don't worry about it." She kept her expression open and businesslike, knowing she was being scrutinized closely. Cuddy moved her hands unhurriedly to the cuff of his sleeve and unbuttoned it.

"Cuddy." He cleared his throat. "At least let me try. See if I can."

He was looking at her as openly as he could manage, his gaze steady on hers. The dark stubble of his beard partly obscured the long, curving scar along his jawline. There were several other such marks on his face, large and small, deep and shallow. Plastic surgery would help with some of them, if House opted for it some day. But the long, narrow face was still and always just House. The deepset, vivid eyes, thin nose, the deep philtrum leading to the sensitive mouth. It was an odd face, but a compelling one. Cuddy suddenly realized how much she had missed that face.

She held out the syringe. "Okay. Give it a try." Cuddy stood up and gathered the forms he'd completed, looking them over to give him a small window of privacy. She ignored the whispered swear words as House went about drawing blood from his arm.

A couple of minutes later, he handed her the vial. Cuddy opened the package of sterile gauze and handed it to him to hold over the puncture. "I already know you don't have hepatitis or HIV, but --"

"-- the hospital needs to do its own tests. Yeah, I know. I know I was lucky, too." It still amazed him that after the nature of the abuse he took, both before and after prison, he hadn't been infected with numerous diseases. "No TB, either. The benefits of clean living," he joked weakly. Watching her turn to another of the items she'd brought, House cocked his head. "What's that?"

"Portable easel." She expanded it with deft, practiced movements, then hooked a roll of canvas to the top and let it unfurl. It was a deep, royal blue. Cuddy cast a rueful look at him. "Your hospital ID. Gotta have it, you know. Administration has a green background. Physicians blue. Nurses white. Clerical yellow. You get the idea." By the scowl on his face, he certainly did. "Rather than have you hobble to the business offices during office hours, we can do this here and now." She positioned the Eames footrest in front of the backdrop and patted the seat. "Come on, sit here. I'll be sure to get your good side."

"Right. Good luck with that." House took up his crutches and crossed the room, sitting where she'd indicated. She set up a square of white cardboard for lighting fill and a studio light angled from the side, then picked up the digital camera.

"I won't ask you to smile. Just say 'rat bastard.'"

The look she got wasn't the scowl she'd expected, nor was it the cocky smirk of his old ID. The digital image on its small screen showed a flat stare and a closed expression, but behind the eyes, their deep blue brought out by the backdrop, was a hint of pain and vulnerability.

She showed him the image. If he didn't approve it, they'd continue until they got one he was okay with. But House just nodded, for all the world as if he didn't really care.

--------------------------------

"I want to see the files. Foreman's, Chase's and Raja's."

"Rajghatta."

"Whatever. Are they here?"

Cuddy waved at a file cabinet under his desk. "Second drawer. Why Chase and Foreman?"

He rummaged in the file drawer until he found the folders. "See what they've been up to while I was gone."

Taking a seat in one of the chairs facing his desk, Cuddy cupped her chin in her hand. "They've been working here. You know that. Attendings under Evans."

She got a brief glance. "Why are they even still here?"

She pondered how to frame her reply, but House didn't give her much time.

"That's what I thought. They had worked for me. No hospital was going to hire them after I was arrested."

"It's stupid. They didn't do anything," Cuddy huffed.

"No. Other than guilt by association. So you let them stay here." His eyes scanned first Foreman's file, then Chase's. "Why were they still in diagnostics? Foreman's an excellent neurologist. Chase had a number of departments he could go to."

Cuddy studied her manicure. "I know. I told them it was their choice. But I asked them to stay on under Evans."

House closed the files and looked at her. "Why?"

She met his eyes. "Because you trained them. You taught them. I knew Evans had a good reputation, but he wasn't you. I thought Chase and Foreman could use what they learned from you and maybe ... maybe pull off some of those miraculous saves you used to manage."

"Did they?"

"A few." Cuddy smiled. "Honestly, I think they found diagnostics more challenging than their own specialties. And I suspect they've broken into a few patients' homes without Evans ever knowing."

House was staring at her, with that faraway look that told her his mind was whirring like a well-oiled machine. "And now I'm coming back, at least for a while. What did you tell them?"

"What do you mean, what did I tell them?"

He looked away. "Are they supposed to baby sit me?"

Fight fire with fire, Cuddy reminded herself. "Why, do you need baby sitting?"

His jaw tightened. "We both know this is an experiment. And you risk looking like an idiot to the board of directors if I can't cut it here."

"Maybe so. I'm ready to gamble on it. House, you're the best damn diagnostician in the country. In the world, possibly. And I'm one of the very few administrative heads willing to put up with your crap. It's a match made in heaven. I've been upfront and honest with you when I said I want you back here. Let me worry about the board. You just do your job."

The sincerity in her voice was plain to hear. His eyes roamed around the office, seeing his old toys and furniture. In his mind's eye he saw the parking slot with his name on it. Remembered the private bath just a few steps to his left. Hell, the whole department was being relocated just for him. And all of it was Cuddy's silent plea for him to make her world, and his own, whole again. Somehow he had to swallow his insecurities, his uncertainties, and at least be a man and try.

House forced himself to meet her gaze. "Cuddy ... two months. After that, we'll see." He took a breath and had to drop his eyes from hers. "I wish I could promise more."


	11. Chapter 9

Bypassing the parking garage, Devi drove her Camry around past the emergency entrance.

Yesterday evening as she'd walked to her car her pager had gone off. The message was from Dr. Cuddy, and read simply, 'House tomorrow.' Devi had driven home with butterflies in her stomach, knowing she'd start her next day of work in a new office with a new boss.

The secrecy was necessary, Devi understood, but she still found it a bit off-putting. Cuddy had kept House's start date under wraps, even to her, Chase and Foreman. The idea was that they wouldn't have to lie about it if they didn't know. In fact, Devi was surprised by how many people had approached her to ask about House's return. Like everyone else, Devi had assumed he'd come back when the remodeling was finished. Didn't seem fair to start him off with construction workers underfoot, but it wasn't her call. She hoped at least their offices would be finished. She and Chase and Foreman had kept tabs on the progress of the construction when they had free time, so they all knew where to report this morning.

She found the parking spot with her name and pulled in, glancing at the dashboard clock. She was 25 minutes early. Gathering her purse and briefcase, she started to get out when a car pulled into the space beside hers. It was Chase. And coming around to the lot's entrance was Foreman's SUV.

The trio exchanged slightly sheepish looks as they exited their vehicles. "Can't tell we're nervous, hm?" Devi joked, falling in step with them as they headed toward the staff door. They walked across the empty parking spot near the entrance, each of them glancing at the painted letters spelling out "House, M.D." that reserved it.

"Not exactly like old times," Foreman murmured as Chase punched in his code and let them in. Devi felt the butterflies take up residence in her midsection again as they walked down the hall and let themselves into the new Diagnostics lounge.

"Whew. Smells like sawdust in a carpet store," Chase said, putting down his briefcase and heading for the coffee machine.

Devi looked around again. All the construction appeared to be finished, but not much had been moved from the upstairs office yet -- more of Cuddy's cloak and dagger attempt to throw off the scent. There was, however, a new coffee machine, along with microwave, refrigerator, a coat rack, empty shelves, three desks, a conference table and chairs ... and a new white board, pushed back against the wall.

Devi could sense her colleagues' excitement and nervousness, but it had to be different from what she felt. They'd worked with House, knew him, knew what to expect. She was an outsider. She wanted to impress House, to be able to add to her CV that she had worked for him.

It was Chase who noticed her introspective look. "Hey, Devi, relax. We're nervous too. I mean, we used to know House. But now things are probably gonna be a lot different."

Foreman was pacing the larger room, checking the view from the windows. "Yeah. We've told you a lot about House, 'before.' But now? We're in the dark too."

She sighed. "I guess I was the only one who was happy working with Dr. Evans. He was a good doctor and a good diagnostician."

"He was," Foreman agreed. "I liked him, as a person, a lot more than I ever liked House. But I can't think of one single thing I actually learned from Evans."

"He was that bad?"

It was Chase who chuckled. "No. It's just that House was that good. Frustrating, irritating, most of the time you just wanted to punch him... House was a terrific example of what not to be as a person. But when it came to the medical end of it, he left everyone else in the dust."

The little smile on Foreman's lips was partly pained and partly amused. "Just remember, Chase, we gotta play it cool. Keep it calm and low key. Don't want to spook him on his first day back."

Chase nodded. "Got it. Coffee's on, so --" he stopped abruptly, listening. At this time of the morning there wasn't a lot of traffic in the hallway, so the approaching footsteps weren't that difficult to hear. Uneven footsteps, a contrapuntal rhythm with the soft ka-chink of forearm crutches that stopped at the next door up -- House's office. They heard the door being unlocked.

Turning back to his colleagues, Chase affected an air of nonchalance. "At least Barnes was released yesterday. Nice enough guy, but dealing with his family ..."

Devi nodded, taking her cue at Chase's change of subject. "Oh, that bunch was impossible. Argued about everything, especially the boyfriend."

"Eh, he's gone." Foreman poured himself a cup of the fresh coffee and shrugged. "Pretty basic lupus case. I've seen --"

The connecting door to the office opened, and House crutched his way into the conference room.

"Good morning."

Foreman's smile held a rare warmth. "Dr. House, it's good to see you back."

Chase turned from the coffee machine. "Same here. Like some coffee?"

Devi watched the tall, thin man nod. "Sure." The crutches emphasized his height, and she followed the line of them down to see the right leg of his trousers tucked into the top of an ortho boot. He kept the leg slightly bent and didn't use that foot. The other was clad in an expensive Nike tennis shoe.

Her eyes came back up to the face she'd seen only in photos. House's face was gaunt and scarred, and he had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen in real life. Those deepset eyes turned to her.

She stood up and approached him, offering her hand. "Devyani Rajghatta. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. House."

His right hand lifted from the crutch grip to envelop hers in a professional clasp.

"Dr. Rajghatta. I've heard good things about you. I'm sure you can't say the same." He glanced at Chase and Foreman as he released her hand.

She smiled. "Then you'd be surprised." Devi took her place at the table again, remembering the feel of his warm, crooked fingers in hers.

"We've told her a lot of stories," Chase said to House, setting his boss' coffee mug at the head of the table. He was trying hard to keep his grin contained to a pleased smile.

"The true ones?" House pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it, leaning the crutches against the wall.

Foreman sat down too, casting a significant look at the crutches. "Ever thought you'd miss that cane?"

The older man rubbed his hand over his face as if he were still trying to wake up. "No. I hope to lose those things someday."

-------------------

Chase got coffee for Rajghatta, glad for something to do with his hands. Stupid to be so nervous, he berated himself. But was it? He didn't know this stranger-House. He was dressed the same as ever -- blazer over oxford shirt over T-shirt. Chase tried to find other similarities, anything that was the same as before. House's hair was semi-brushed, unlike his former bed-head look. He had about a four-day growth of beard, which was comfortingly familiar, but the scars on his face and the pain behind his eyes would take getting used to. House had always been a tall, slender, athletically-built man. Now he was rail thin, although looking far better than when Chase and Foreman had seen him at his home three months ago. His hair was a little thinner and carried much more silver gray. It hurt to see how much his hands had changed, too, their strong elegance destroyed.

But it wasn't just his appearance that was different. Chase had been watching the office door when House had made his entrance. The calm, uninflected "Good morning" had been bravado.

All of House's fellows had become familiar with his defensive walls. Any personal question, any show of caring, and up they went. Only rarely, exceptionally rarely, had any of them ever seen the walls lower a bit. Today, seeing House crutch-step into the adjoining conference room, Chase could see that House had abandoned his walls. In their place were steel and concrete mile-high barriers, a veritable fortress surrounded by a moat with a welcome mat that said 'keep out.'

Chase took a sip of coffee. If he and Foreman and Devi were apprehensive about House's return ... what must House himself be feeling? He almost jumped when the hoarse voice said "Chase, there are four files on my desk. Go get them."

He'd seen House's new office when it was just four walls and new carpet. Looking at it now, Chase was a bit taken aback to see so many of the familiar accoutrements. It gave him an eerie feeling of deja vu. He grabbed the folders off the desk and headed back to the conference room, hearing Foreman say "Nice boot. Heard you had some work done on your foot and your knee."

"All the king's horses and all the king's men," House muttered under his breath as he reached for his coffee mug.

Chase dealt out the folders and took his seat at the table. House's defenses were firmly in place, and it was highly unlikely anyone but maybe Wilson could breach them. Chase sighed to himself. He knew he was going to be stupid and actually try. "Dr. House." The sharp eyes came up to focus on Chase. "I'm truly glad you're back."

Whatever House thought, or felt, didn't show. His intense gaze dissected Chase for a second, then he said "Thanks." It wasn't warm, but neither was it mocking, and House looked down again and opened his copy of the file. "We have a new case, courtesy of Dr. Cuddy. Probably something pathetically simple to ease me back into the grind. Thirty-nine-year-old black female, presents with fever, swollen lymph glands and a rash ..." He glanced up. "Foreman, you do the honors. See if you still write like a girl."

Foreman brought the white board over to the table and began writing out the symptoms. Clearly House didn't want to stand to do it, and then there was the matter of his hands. Foreman didn't mind the task, or the barb that accompanied it. It was, after all, just House.

---------------------------------

Even as she took part in the discussion, Devi studied her new boss. She'd heard of Gregory House long before she'd ever stepped foot in Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital, given that he was something of a legend in contemporary American medicine -- as much for his unpleasant personality and unorthodox methods as for his medical genius. Very few people had kind words for him. However, she'd heard the term "brilliant" every bit as often as the word "ass" in people's descriptions of him.

When the news of Dr. Allison Cameron's murder hit the media, House's name became infamous outside of medical circles. Devi had, like many others, followed the case with intense fascination. It hit close to home for many in the medical profession, especially those who knew of House. For the general public it was a twisted, sordid tale of madness, misplaced vengeance and human suffering.

What had been done to Gregory House physically, mentally and emotionally, defied description. She looked up at his face, seeing the marks of past blows. A long, jagged scar rode over his adam's apple.

The hands resting atop his copy of the patient's file were large and heavily veined, the long fingers twisted and unsteady. There were three white scars on the back of his left hand, burn marks in small perfect circles. Cigarette burns. Near them was a long pink and white scar stretching from between his middle fingers to disappear under the cuff of his sleeve. As if from a distance she thought she heard her name.

Blinking, she looked at Chase, who was saying, "Dr. Rajghatta? You'll run the labs?"

"Yes, yes. Of course." She desperately hoped she wasn't blushing. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see Dr. House watching her. Oh, she was making _such_ a good impression.

Snapping out of her reverie, Devi took part in briefing her boss on their existing cases, then gathered her files to get to work as Chase and Foreman got up, too.

"Dr. Rajghatta." House's rough voice stopped her.

Foreman traded a look with Chase, and the two men filed out to get started.

Devi braced herself, making herself meet her boss' intense gaze.

He was still seated, unmoving, looking up at her expressionlessly. "It's better just to not think about it," he said, his tone surprisingly gentle.

"Dr. House, I --"

"Don't worry about it. Just don't let me distract you from your patients."

She hesitated. "I won't. And I'm sorry."

He shrugged, reaching for his crutches. "Everyone's curious. I'm resigned to being the hospital's freak show." A grimace tugged at his features. "Sorry. That was harsh. Curiosity is human nature." He hauled himself to his feet and started toward his office.

"Dr. House?"

He stopped, barely turning.

"Foreman was thinking about leaving until he heard you were coming back. His regard for you, and Chase's, tells me a lot. I know I've lucked into a rare opportunity, getting this chance to work for you. I won't blow it."

She could only see his profile. His expression was unreadable, eyes downcast. With a nod, he disappeared into his office.


	12. Chapter 10

House closed the connecting door and sagged against it, closing his eyes at the rush of relief from knowing he was safe from prying eyes. The relief almost helped balanced the chorus of aches and pains from everywhere. He felt as if he'd just run a marathon.

He leaned against the door, his head hanging.

As usual, it was Wilson's words that haunted him. Weeks ago Wilson had been trying to persuade House to meet with Cuddy, and wasn't making much headway until he'd paused and looked at House, deadly serious, and said, "If you give up and hide for the rest of your days, Greg, then Thompson wins. Even dead and buried, he wins."

Those words had hit home, like an arrow through his heart. House had stared at Wilson, then looked away and had had little to say for the next three days. That's when he'd caved and agreed to meet with Cuddy. And Wilson's words still stuck with him, because they were true.

Two months, he told himself. He'd agreed to two months. Sixty days to pretend he was normal, to hide the self-doubt and the pain and the incessant goddamned fear he could never fully shake off.

So much to hide.

Exhausted, House dragged himself to his chair and eased himself down, letting the crutches fall to the floor.

He hated that Foreman and Chase had seen him months ago at the townhouse. The anesthesia from that knee ligament surgery had really done a number on him -- he hadn't been able to keep anything down for days afterward, and Linda and Wilson had resorted to giving him IV nutrition and liquids. He knew he must have looked like refried death -- and naturally, that's when his former fellows had decided to come calling.

House felt his face burn as he remembered flinching away from Foreman. In that fleeting second all he'd seen was the figure of a man, big and coming at him fast. It had been utterly humiliating, letting them see his fear. Showing them how far he'd fallen. When they had gone out the door House had grabbed up his water glass and flung it across the room, seeing it shatter by the fireplace mantel with great satisfaction. If only he could just as easily rid himself of his fear and anger.

Wilson had not reacted at all to that display of frustration. He'd moved closer, and House had felt his hand on his shoulder and heard the admiration in his friend's soft words. "House, you just saved a little girl's life."

And he _had_ felt pride. Gone to hell and back again, gone crazy and back again, and he'd _still _made the diagnosis when all his able-bodied and able-minded peers could not.

House lifted his legs onto the footrest, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to relax.

Ever since agreeing to this gig, he'd wondered what to aim for. Pretend that nothing had changed? Keep his head down, do his job and keep everyone as far away as possible?

He had always jealously guarded his privacy, controlling what others knew about him. Now everyone knew everything. House sighed, feeling the aches in his body, from his foot to his knee and thigh, his back, both shoulders, one arm, the opposite wrist ... the symphony of his body's bitching.

Everyone knew about Thompson. The contract. Cameron. Prison. Maybe they didn't have a wealth of details, but all it took was a bit of imagination. Now every fucking moron who recognized him practically had his life story. There was no privacy. No dignity. Nowhere to hide.

It was a relief that Chase and Foreman knew he was a total asshole. But he could no longer pretend that he didn't care about anyone but himself because they knew about that damned contract.

And it took so much energy to hide the pain and guard against the fear that he had little left for verbal snipes to keep them at a proper emotional distance.

He swiped a weary hand over his face. He'd had months to think it over and still had no good answer. House wanted desperately to be who he used to be, but that man had died somewhere between prison and catatonia. His old self was gone. Problem was, there was no new self to replace it.

Wilson had tried to be of help when he'd suggested, "Just be who you are, House."

House opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "Well? Who am I?" he asked it.

The ceiling was wise enough to keep its mouth shut.

So ... two months. A trial run at trying to live again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey."

Looking up from the microscope, Devi nodded at Chase as he came in and plopped down on a stool.

"Everything okay?"

She smiled. 'You mean, did House bawl me out? No."

"Well, you did kind of zone out there." Chase's smile was sympathetic.

"I know, I know. Stupid thing to do." With a sigh, she removed the slide from the 'scope. "He said, 'it's better just to not think about it.' Can you believe that?"

Chase shrugged. "House can read people. Especially when they don't want to be read."

Devi scribbled in her notes, then picked up another slide. "Then he said he's resigned to being the hospital's freak show. God. He's been through enough."

Putting down the file he'd been flipping through, Chase looked at her seriously. "He's gonna get stared at. He's like a ... a celebrity, for all the wrong reasons. Guess people have to wonder, what if it was me and not him? Would I have held out that long?"

"It isn't fair. I mean, he's just trying to get his life together again."

"Look, Devi, this is a good deal for House. He knows this hospital, its staff. Cuddy is bending over backwards to help him transition. Yeah, it'll be hard for him, but at least this is a test he's chosen. He's making the decisions and doing it for himself. It's either this or hide from the world and let himself die."

At her stare, Chase looked taken aback by his own analysis. He sighed. "Well, don't you think it's true?"

------------------------------------------------

Foreman smiled at his patient and left the room, shutting the sliding door behind him. When he looked up, Dr. Cuddy was waiting for him.

"How's the patient?" she asked conversationally.

He suppressed a smile. Cuddy might as well be wearing a neon sign, she was so easy to read. She was far more concerned about House than she was about getting an update on a man with a heart problem.

"We've got a few ideas. Right now we're waiting for test results."

Cuddy nodded. "Why don't you brief me in the office."

He walked with her to the fourth-floor diagnostics office. Obviously she wanted people to see the department's staff using it, to keep up the charade that the new one wasn't ready yet.

Once there, Foreman saw someone had made coffee. A half-eaten bagel sat on a napkin on the conference table. Chase's, most likely.

"Do you have everything you need downstairs?" she asked as soon as the hall door closed.

"Yeah, pretty much." He riffled through the pile of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk. "Once all this stuff is moved down there, we'll be all set."

Cuddy nodded. "And House?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You mean you haven't checked on him yet?"

She had the decency to look a little guilty. "No. I'm trying not to hover. Just tell me."

"So far so good." Seeing the anxiousness shadowing her features, Foreman shrugged. "He's fine. Tired, I think. I know he's dealing with pain. But he came in, said good morning, and we went right into the DDX on the new patient. Then we briefed him on our current patients. Agreed on tests and treatment plans, and that was it."

The corner of her mouth twisted up wryly. "I really don't doubt that he can do his job, as a diagnostician, I mean." She leaned a hip against the conference table and loosely folded her arms. "It's just ... he's been so isolated. Caged up for so long ..."

"I get what you're saying, Dr. Cuddy. House never had a problem with the medicine. It's the people that bother him." Foreman stared thoughtfully at the floor. "Guess the only difference is, now it's magnified."

"Dr. Foreman, thank you for supporting House in this. I get the feeling you're rooting for him."

He shot her a fake glower to make her laugh. "Maybe so," he grudgingly admitted. "But Wilson summed it up at that meeting. House can save lives. That's our business. It's why I wanted to be a doctor. I can save more lives with House than without him."

Her face sobered, but her eyes continued to smile. "And that's all it is, hm? Lowering the mortality rate."

Foreman let his smile show. "No. I want this for House, too. I want him to thumb his nose at that dead crazy man and have a life again. I just ... want to know there's some justice in the world."

--------------------------------------

Test results in hand, Foreman headed to the stairs. It was a little like being in some weird James Bond movie, trying to act casual and not attract attention as he headed for the new office. He made it to the semi-isolated hallway without seeing anyone he knew and knocked on House's door, reminding himself to wait for a response.

"Come."

Short, abrupt, like a command to a dog. Well, House wasn't big on formalities. Foreman went in, seeing House at his desk. It was piled with texts, medical journals and hospital memos.

"Got Carrig's test results." He nodded at the chaos on the desk. "It's hell starting up again, huh."

House let the booklet on PPTH's new lab procedures fall atop the rest of the pile. "Like a rat in a maze," he muttered. Eying the printouts in Foreman's hand, he said, "Carrig? What about the woman with the rash?"

"Sterling? Devi's handling that. She should have her results in half an hour or so."

House nodded at Carrig's tests. "Give."

Foreman stepped forward, casually and slowly, to hand them to House. Then, as if looking around, he backed off a few steps. He wondered if there was an art to giving someone space without seeming to.

House was rapidly scanning the top sheet of the results. Without looking up he said, "Sit down. Say what's on your mind. And for God's sake go ahead and stare."

Caught off guard, Foreman just blinked at his boss for a moment, then ambled away and sat down on the Eames footrest.

"Problem's gotta be his heart, from the EKG. See those dystolic peaks? Infected valve, probably."

"Or faulty wiring. Go on."

"Broad-spectrum antibiotics, see if that clears up the infection and arrythmia."

House looked over the rest of the results. "O2 sats are tanking. Up his oxygen and try the antibiotics."

Foreman nodded. "Okay." He got up and reached carefully for the file as House handed it back to him. At this point House would ordinarily turn away, closing the conversation with body language. But now he kept his gaze on the other man. Not wary, exactly, but cautious. Foreman didn't take offense, just nodded and moved away toward the door.

"Foreman." House's voice was low.

His hand on the doorknob, Foreman turned. "Yeah?"

House clearly wanted to look away, but he couldn't let his guard down that much. Instead he stared intently at the carpet in front of Foreman's feet. "I know your career was set back because of what happened." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sorry. You should be running your own department by now."

Foreman tried to keep his expression natural, although getting a sincere apology from House was the last thing he'd ever expected.

"Hey, it wasn't your fault," he replied with a shrug. "It's nothing compared to what you've had to deal with." He thought for a moment, searching for the words that would most reassure House. They came to him suddenly, and he hid his smile. "Although despite all that's happened, I expect you're still pretty much the same self-absorbed jerk you've always been."

Foreman left, closing the door on House's pleased smirk.

----------------------------------------------------------------

No more than twenty minutes after Foreman had gone, the knock on the door startled him. House froze for a half second until he remembered the danger was over with. Still, he couldn't take his eyes off the door.

"Dr. House? May I come in?"

Rajghatta's voice. His wariness receded several notches. "Yeah. Come in."

She carried a folder in one hand and a folded-over paper bag in the other. Smiling, she set the bag on his desk. "That's from Dr. Wilson. He said it was a CARE package."

Curious, House inspected the gift. The bag contained two cans of cold Coke, three candy bars and two bags of chips.

"Wilson is the saint of Jewish mothers everywhere," he sighed happily before looking at the papers in her other hand. "What've we got?"

He listened to her recite the BUN and amylase results, the enzymes and protein levels and other stats. At the same time he studied his inherited fellow. Rajghatta stood easily in front of his desk as she went over the labs, comfortable in sensible flat shoes. She wore dark slacks and a cream blouse, and the crisp white of her lab coat set off the cafe au lait hue of her skin. She was of average height, neither overweight nor particularly thin. Her black hair was styled to stay out of her face, and she had the large, wide dark eyes so often seen in Indian women. The slightest bit of an accent added a pleasant lilt to her speech.

When she finished her report, she closed the lab folder and waited patiently for him to comment.

House nodded to a chair. "Sit down a minute."

Her expression didn't change as she took the seat he'd indicated.

"Born in Punjab. Moved to Uttar Pradesh at age ten."

Devi blinked before she realized he was talking about her.

"Came to the United States for college and med school," he continued, reciting from memory. "Your father was a businessman. Your mother a politician."

She smiled and nodded. "That's right." It made sense that he'd read her file and wanted to know a little more about her.

House was reclined in his leather chair, feet propped on the corner of his desk, his left ankle atop the ortho boot. His hands were out of sight.

"Devyani K.D. Rajghatta," he murmured to himself, looking out the courtyard door. "K stand for Kaur?"

That surprised her. Before she could answer, he noted her reaction and nodded.

"You're a Sikh, not a Hindu."

Puzzled, she raised her brows. "Yes. Does it matter?"

His reflective expression didn't change, nor the contemplative tone of his voice. "Not a bit. Except I was looking forward to making fun of your gods."

She grinned. Chase and Foreman had told her countless tales of House's sheer rudeness -- and also of his playfulness. "Sorry to disappoint you, Dr. House."

He glanced at her. "Kaur. Means Princess."

"You know a lot about my culture. Have you ever been to India?"

"Lived there a while. As a kid." His mood seemed to shift abruptly back to the business at hand. "You took this fellowship to work with Frank Evans. Imagine you were sorry to see him go."

Devi saw House's right hand go to his leg and grip his thigh. She couldn't tell what he was getting at with the change in topic. "Dr. Evans was a nice man. A good doctor. I learned a lot from him."

"Like what?"

She decided to cheat a little and add in some of what she'd learned from Foreman and Chase, too. "Not to fall back on lazy thinking. To run my own tests when I can, and to know when it's sometimes necessary to question the results. To look for patterns, and try to find out what the patient isn't telling me."

"Ever go on any fishing expeditions with Chase or Foreman?"

That made her grin again. "They aren't department heads. They couldn't order me to, and they didn't want me to get in trouble."

"But you knew what they were doing."

Devi nodded. "I did. Dr. Evans didn't."

"You kept secrets from your boss?"

She adopted a bland expression. "I didn't see the need to bother him with it." She thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in House's eyes, just for a moment.

"So now Evans is gone, and I'm here. I'm not a 'nice man.'" He was mocking her description of Evans.

Devi tilted her head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Dr. Chase and Dr. Foreman respect your medical insight far more. I want to learn from you."

-------------------------------------------

He was framing another question when a knock on the door interrupted. His first day back, and his office was turning into Grand Central Station.

"Come," he called, his rough voice making it more like a growl.

The door opened, and it took House a minute to place the familiar face and attach a name to it.

"Is this a bad time?" Brenda Previn glanced at Devi, but her gaze was drawn to House.

Devi looked at him too, got his small nod of dismissal. She smiled at the nurse on her way out.

Previn moved to let Dr. Rajghatta pass, then closed the door after her. She didn't move any further into the room, just hovered at the door as if reassuring herself of an escape route.

House found it odd. Did she really think he was going to leap up and chase her? He gave her a once over, curious why she was here. Previn had lost weight, and she had always been a thin woman. Her face was pale, and the dark smudges under her eyes undercut her typically stern expression.

"Jesus, Brenda, you look as bad as I do," he said matter-of-factly.

She gave a wan smile. "Thanks." The familiar acid dripped from the word. "Dr. Cuddy confided in me that you were here today. I had to swear to keep my mouth shut."

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm the phantom of the hospital. The mask's around here somewhere."

She folded her arms with a tight smile. "Dr. Cuddy also told me not to bother you today."

"Yet ... here you are."

"Yeah." Her gaze fell away from his and she shuffled her feet uncomfortably. "I wanted to tell you I'm glad you're back. I'm glad you're okay."

That was debatable, House thought, but he kept silent. Nurse Brenda seemed to have more to say. He could see the muscles in her jaw working.

"Dr. House ... when you were arrested and made your confession ... I was one of the people who believed you did it."

He was stunned by how much those words hurt. They shouldn't have, he told himself faintly. He didn't want to feel anything at all, about any of it.

It didn't bother him that strangers had believed he was a murderer. That was pretty much the point of confessing to the crime.

But Brenda Previn _knew_ him. True, the people he knew fell into three categories. The largest by far were those who despised him. The next category consisted of those who knew him, but merely disliked him. The smallest group were the people who knew him and actually tolerated him. He'd always figured Previn was somewhere in the second group. He'd barked at her a few times, mocked her more than once, but usually they had traded snarks on a a mostly equal, tit-for-tat basis. Previn had a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, which he could respect, in his way.

She'd _known_ him. How could she have believed that he'd killed Cameron?

His thoughts had only taken a second. As he found his voice he hoped none of it had shown on his face. "That's your big news? Everyone was _supposed_ to believe it. That was the idea."

She clenched her arms tighter. "Dr. Cuddy didn't, or Wilson. Neither did Chase or Foreman." Previn tried to shrug. "Ever since I found out the truth, I've been ... thinking about it. Too much, I guess. What you were going through, and all the while I was thinking such terrible things about you." Drawing a deep breath, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, Dr. House. I didn't come here for forgiveness or understanding. You've got enough going on without my crap on top of it." With a sigh, she forced herself to meet his eyes. "I'm here because ... if I were you, I'd be trying to figure out who my friends are. Who I could trust. So you should know I haven't been any kind of friend to you."

House tried to keep a poker face. "And now? I'm still a mean old bastard, you know."

Previn sounded dead tired. "Guess now you've earned the right to be whatever you want." She put her hand on the doorknob. "Good luck, House. I'm glad you're back."


	13. Chapter 11

A/N: I finally had time to add to this chapter. Again, thanks for your patience!

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Wilson called House's favorite deli for a delivery order, and when the hot sandwiches and drinks were paid for, he made his way downstairs as inconspicuously as he could manage.

He was thrilled with how well things were going. _It's only been half a day, don't get excited yet_, he reminded himself. But he'd worked out a deal with Chase to get regular reports via pager on House's state of affairs.

Wilson had received the brief text -- _H OK _-- about the time the morning DDX would have wrapped up. When he read the comforting note, it seemed he could actually feel his blood pressure drop.

He tapped on the door and called out "Hey, it's me," before sticking his head in. House's desk was buried in papers, and the head of diagnostics himself was fast asleep, sprawled in the Eames chair.

Wilson shut the door softly and put the bag of deli food on one of the visitor's chairs before taking in the sight of his friend.

The crutches were haphazardly propped against the wall nearby, and a patient file had fallen from House's hand to scatter on the floor.

Wilson smiled. House must be exhausted. Although it was only noon, House expended more energy just getting out of bed in the morning than most people did in 8 hours' work. He didn't have much stamina these days -- the slow starvation in prison just capped off the physical stress on his body from the last few years. House had no reserve of resources to tap into.

Every morning Wilson used his key to let himself into House's side of the duplex, and went back to the bedroom. House would nearly always be awake and in pain, waiting for the first Vicodin of the day to kick in.

Wilson would sit on the bed and ask, "Where does it hurt?" It was often the leg, a favorite target of Thompson's goons. Sometimes it was House's back or shoulders, or another limb; sometimes House would whisper tightly, "Everywhere."

And Wilson would put his hands where the pain was and massage, gently or deeply as needed, listening to House's ragged breathing, a gasp or hiss or occasional curse telling Wilson when he'd found the heart of the pain. The battered body he ministered to would shake, or tense, or flinch, but House would whisper "Keep going." After 15 or 20 minutes Linda McAllister would arrive, immediately coming to the bedroom to take over. James would arrange for anything House needed for the day -- extra pain meds, morphine patches, an extra Vicodin -- get Linda's input, and then House would gruffly tell him to get the hell out and go to work.

That was a normal start for House's day, if the weather cooperated. When it didn't he never made it out of bed. He had too many formerly broken bones, fractures and torn ligaments to overcome their complaints when a front was moving in. A morphine patch and a backlog of DVD movies got him through those days.

The pain sapped House's energy. With no reserves to draw upon, he napped often and snacked steadily, when he had an appetite at all. Just because he was back at work didn't change the routine.

Wilson was tempted to let him sleep, but he wanted to touch base with House and be sure he ate his lunch. He tapped House's big toe, where the ortho boot left his stockinged toes uncovered.

House shifted slightly. "Nuh," he grunted.

"House. It's me. I brought lunch."

House's head lolled to the opposite side, but he was still asleep. "Lev. Twel," he mumbled.

Wilson shook his head and tapped House's toe again. "Your reuben is getting cold."

House started awake, staring at Wilson a moment before getting his bearings. He cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over his face. "Thank God you woke me up. I was having this nightmare about being back at work." He pretended to suddenly take note of his surroundings. "Oh, _damn_."

"Very funny. You were counting again." Wilson watched him cautiously move stiffened limbs, then hide a yawn in his sleeve. "You still do that a lot. Why do you always start over at 27?"

House eyed him. "'Cause I can't count any higher. I smell food."

"I mean, who counts in their sleep? I didn't think it was even possible."

"_Food, _Wilson."

Wilson began working on House's desk, stacking books and files and papers to clear a spot in the center. "Can you come over to the desk? If you eat here you'll be less likely to slop it all over yourself." He got the expected glare at that.

"Why don't you just get me a high chair and a bib," House grumbled, reaching for his crutches.

"You wouldn't believe how many times I've wanted to stick a pacifier in your mouth to shut you up."

Moving slowly, House positioned the crutches and pulled himself up. Wilson, setting the food out on the desk, subtly kept an eye on his friend. The length of the pause between House standing and taking a step told him volumes about House's pain level. This was a long pause.

"You know, you could just do a half day today. There's nothing urgent going on."

House crutch-stepped slowly around his desk. "I didn't sign up for half days. Besides, it would set a bad example for the kiddies." He carefully eased himself into the chair, ditching the crutches to rub his knee.

"Yeah, well, two of those kids are now attendings. You got'em pointed in the right direction for the day." Wilson watched House close his eyes and shift one hand from his knee to his shoulder and rub. "Let's eat, then I'll run you home."

House opened his good eye, and the look he gave Wilson was steely. "I'm staying. End of discussion." He began unwrapping his sandwich.

Wilson sighed inwardly. There was no reasoning with House when he was like this. And if he tried to help with the sandwich, he'd just get growled at. Sticking a straw through the plastic lid of the take-out drink, he slid it over to House and tucked into his own food.

For a while they ate in contented silence. It was House who finally ventured a question. "Seen much of Brenda since you came back to work?"

"Brenda? Previn?" Wilson's brows drew together quizzically. "I see her at the clinic desk when I'm there. Why?"

House studied the remaining half of his reuben, his expression impassive. "Just wondered."

"House, you never 'just wonder' about things. Why are you asking about Brenda?"

"You talk to her much?"

This topic was firmly under House's control, Wilson realized. The discussion would go at House's pace and in the direction he wanted it to go. "No, not really. Just casually, you know."

House took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully, staring over Wilson's left shoulder at nothing. "When I was in prison, you were here. Working with the same people." Wilson's brown eyes were searching his face, trying to find a hint of where this was going. "I imagine everyone thought I really did kill Cameron. They were supposed to."

"House --"

"Except for you. Guess you had to take a lot of fallout for having been my friend." He cleared his throat lightly. "Wouldn't blame you if you faked going along with the majority opinion. Easier that way. I would've."

"No, you wouldn't." Wilson dropped his sandwich onto a napkin with a grimace. "You take great delight in bucking majority opinion. If it had been me, you'd defend me at high volume, in the most irritating, attention-getting way possible. Every day." Looking down at the desk, Wilson murmured, "I'm not you, House. But I told everybody you were innocent. I wouldn't let anyone say... things about you in my presence. I caused a few scenes. Got reprimanded. And I ..." he wiped his hand over his face. "I punched out another doctor once." He looked up, met his friend's steady gaze. "Pretty soon no one would say a bad word about you where I could hear it." Wilson shrugged. "I wish there was more I could have done."

"It was already more than I deserved." House looked away again. "Thanks, Wilson."

---------------------------------------------------------------

Chase rubbed himself down with the towel then tied it around his hips before stepping out of the shower stall. Clinic duty was always a mixed bag of surprises, but one thing could always be counted on: getting puked on by a kid.

He'd thrown his shirt in the trash and washed off his slacks and shoes before showering. A set of scrubs would get him through the rest of the day. Sitting on a bench, Chase began getting dressed as he mused over the not-so-glamorous life of a doctor. He heard the door open to the connecting men's locker room.

"Five babies in four hours. Is there going to be a full moon tonight?"

Chase recognized Tsuko Tashida's voice, one of the OB physicians.

"Must be something like that. Heard they had a couple of tussles up on the psych ward earlier today."

That voice was harder to place. Maybe Phelps, an anesthesiologist Chase had worked with a couple of times. He stood up to tie the drawstring on the scrub pants.

Locker doors squeaked open as the men continued talking. Tashida was chuckling. "C'mon, it's psych. Someone's always lighting cigarettes under the smoke alarms or hollering about something."

The other man snorted a laugh. "Ought to be putting Cuddy up there."

Chase pulled the scrub shirt over his head and thought, poor Cuddy. Administrators got blamed for everything. You didn't venture into that field if you had a thin skin.

"What, you're pissed about the new rules for expense reports? That wasn't Cuddy, it was those pricks in accounting."

A locker door slammed shut, and Phelps said, "Expense reports? I'm not talking about that. I mean she's got to be nuts, hiring House back here."

Chase froze. Tashida muttered something he couldn't catch, then Phelps spoke again.

"Hell, I don't know. I followed it on the news back then, though. He must've pissed off that guy really good. Probably just got what was coming to him."

Chase felt his anger rise in a hot rush. Phelps didn't know jack shit about what had happened. He sure wasn't in a position to judge House.

Tashida was indifferent. "Not my department. Not my problem."

"Well, you can bet on one thing. He'll be a changed man. You know what happens to guys in prison."

"Phelps, shut the hell up about House," Tashida said, sounding disgusted.

Chase stalked into the locker room, his face stony and white with anger. The two men turned to look at him in surprise. Quietly, Chase said, "You're an ignorant bastard, Phelps." As the man's face reddened, he went on. "You know nothing about House, or what he's been through. Even after everything that's happened, he's still worth twenty of you. Take Dr. Tashida's advice. Shut your fucking mouth."

With a civil nod to Tashida, Chase walked out of the locker room.

----------------------------

He took the stairs to the main floor, trying to work off the anger that clung to him like a red haze.

House had never been well-liked by anyone, and it was completely his own fault. Chase himself had always had a like/loath relationship with his boss. If there was such a thing as penance, though, then House was surely absolved from his past behavior. He'd suffered more than enough to earn the right to start over, if people would let him.

Idiots like Phelps were a dime a dozen, though.

Chase sat on a step in the empty stairwell and put his head in his hands.

This was exactly what he'd dreaded. His emotions were being run through the shredder _again_. For the third time in five years, House was unwittingly bringing chaos to Chase's life.

It wasn't fair, he groaned to himself. Then he rapped his fists against his forehead. _Stop the self pity, _he ordered himself. Life wasn't fair to anyone, least of all House.

Staring at the gray concrete stairs, Chase allowed himself to realize why he was so angry. It was because Phelps was probably right.

Chase had never consciously thought it through. He didn't want to. The idea of it twisted his gut and his brain.

House had been in prison, where his tormentors had him cornered. He couldn't have escaped them even if he'd been able to run.

Of course he had been raped.

Drawing a deep breath, Chase found his mind automatically trying to shut off that line of thought. He didn't know why that seemed so much worse than the torture and the beatings House had endured, but it _was_ worse. Probably because the rest was only a violation of the body. Rape violated the mind, the emotions and the spirit.

Chase swiped at his eyes roughly. Foreman had probably come to the same conclusions, but they would never discuss it. It was better left unspoken and uncontemplated.

House had survived it all and was struggling to put that evil behind him. Speculating on the past wouldn't help him or anyone.

For the thousandth time, Chase wondered where God had been all the times House had cried out for mercy.

-------------------------------------------

Wilson looked up at the tap on his door, and smiled at Cuddy as she let herself in.

She smiled back. "Long day?"

He gestured her to a chair. "A little like sitting on dynamite."

She nodded wryly. "Me too. Did you see him at lunch?"

"Yeah. He was sleeping. Worn out. I tried to talk him into making it a half day, but, well..."

"Uh huh. He's still House. Thank God."

They shared a look of perfect accord for a moment before Lisa sighed. "Look, it's 3 o'clock. See if you can get him to go home. If you can, you can take the rest of the day off, too."

Wilson looked dubious. "I'll talk to him. But if he's out to prove some ridiculous point, it'll be a waste of time."

"I know. Just give it a shot. You could use the rest too."

----------------------------

He tapped on the door. "Hey. It's me." Wilson let himself in.

House's desk was mostly cleared off -- apparently he'd stayed awake long enough to read through most of the material he'd had stacked up. But at the moment, House had his arms folded atop his desk blotter and his head resting on them, snoring lightly.

After a couple seconds' consideration, Wilson moved toward the conference room door and went in, seeing Devi at her desk writing in patient files.

"Hey, how's it going?" he asked her.

She smiled at him. "Good. Is Dr. House okay? He's been awful quiet for the last hour."

"Oh, he's fine. Resting. Listen, I want to try to get him to go home for the day. How are your patients? Do you need House to stick around until five?"

Devi considered. "Carrig is a little better. Mrs. Sterling is no worse. She's resting comfortably. Um..." She flipped open a couple of other files. "Dr. Foreman discharged Mr. Preston this afternoon, and Pfeiffer is much better. No, I think everything's under control here."

Wilson hesitated. "How is he with _you_, doctor? Is everything all right?"

"Dr. House made it clear what he expects of me. Asked me a few questions. I think he's a good man, Dr. Wilson, no matter that he feels he must hide it."

"Dr. Rajghatta ... thanks for making the effort to see that in him. And I'd like to know if I could rely on you for something."

She peered up at him uncertainly. "Yes ...?"

Wilson shuffled his feet and cast a quick glance at House's office door. He lowered his voice. "If anything happens, I mean, if House is ... anxious ... it's just that he seems to respond better to women. It would be better if you could sort of help him, until I get there."

Her dark eyes looked up into his, searching for what Wilson wasn't saying. "You're afraid for him."

Wilson rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing he hadn't brought it up. "I'm ... concerned that everything goes well for him. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"I want that for Dr. House, too," she assured him, smiling again. "I'll help however I can."

Still uneasy, Wilson nodded. "Good. Thanks, Dr. Rajghatta. Guess I'll go in there and try to make him go home."

-------------------------------------

House had stubbornly stayed at his desk for another hour just to spite Wilson. But by 4 o'clock his back and shoulder muscles were trembling with fatigue. The sedative effects of his pain meds also dragged at him, until Wilson had had enough. House had picked up a pen to sign off on an insurance form -- his health insurance was paid for by the state of New Jersey, part of the court settlement because no insurance company would touch him -- when the pen fell out of his fingers. He picked it up again, and it dropped again. After the third time, Wilson stood up and began collecting House's backpack, ignoring the evil eye House was giving him.

"Come on. You're going home now."

"Says who?"

Wilson retrieved the crutches and held them out to House, with his best "no bullshit" look. House glared at him, but eventually had to drop his gaze. He took the crutches with a sigh.

"I'll go bring my car around." Wilson looked out the courtyard door. "I'll pull up there. Shorter walk for you."

"I can drive myself home," House muttered sullenly.

"Really? 'Cause I'm not so sure you're safe to walk right now," Wilson told him. "House, just shut up and wait here. Give me five minutes and we'll be on our way home."

"What about the kids?"

"They'll survive for an hour without you."

-----------------------------------------

Wilson ended up helping House make his way into the townhouse, feeling the strain of House's exhausted body as he held him up with a supporting arm around his waist. When House started to head for the couch, Wilson shook his head. "Nope. You're going to bed. Once you go down you won't want to get back up."

He got House to the bed and helped him undress, then eased him down to the pillows.

"Pathetic," House muttered softly.

Wilson smiled. "No. Not pathetic, House. Tired. You put in an honest day's work and you aren't used to it yet. It's something to be proud of."

"I was always more proud when I could dodge an honest day's work."

"The dodging takes more effort. You'll get back the knack in no time. What do you want for dinner?" The bedroom was dark by now, with only a faint glimmer of light from the window to show him House's form lying still under the blanket. "House?" After a moment, with no answer forthcoming, Wilson pulled the blanket up to House's chest and left his friend to sleep.


	14. Chapter 12

**A/N** -- A few days after posting Chapter 11, I added to it. If you haven't read all of that chapter, you may want to check it before continuing with this one. Thank you to everyone reading!

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House muttered darkly under his breath as he pushed his arms into the cuffs of the crutches, trying to keep the shoulder strap of his backpack from sliding down. Years ago he'd mastered the logistics of carrying things while using a cane. The crutches were a hundred times worse.

He glanced up at the sky. Yesterday had been clear. Today there were some clouds. Tomorrow called for rain, and he didn't need a damn weatherman to tell him. His body had become as accurate a barometer as his leg had been.

Tomorrow was going to suck. Until then, there was today to get through.

He shut the car door and headed for the ER staff entrance. Getting in required him to shift his weight to one crutch to free his other hand to punch in his code. House could feel his backpack start to slip as he stepped inside the door.

"Damn it," he swore softly, managing to lean against the wall just in time as the pack slid off his shoulder, down his arm and crutch to smack onto the floor.

"Here, let me give you a hand --"

House looked up to see a man in scrubs move away from two similarly attired colleagues and approach him. The man snatched up the pack and straightened up. "I can carry this for y -- God! _House? _Is that you?"

House was trying to keep his head down and his back turned to the main hall. His helper was right in front of him, however, and recognition belatedly came back to him. Dr. Ron Hudson, second in charge of the emergency department.

"Thanks, Hudson, just hand me the strap --"

"It _is_ you," the ER doctor marveled. "Wow. I heard you were coming back." Dazedly he handed the backpack to House, staring at him.

Footsteps approached from behind him, and House instinctively put his back against the wall. "Yeah, well, gotta go --"

"Ron?" A new voice as the man and woman Hudson had been talking to joined them. The woman had a look of shock on her face. "Oh my God, Greg House? It's me, Evelyn Johnston."

He was acutely aware of how they were staring at him. Even with the wall protecting his back, he felt crowded and anxious. His heart was thudding against his ribs, sweat slicking his palms.

Hudson was talking again. "Rick, this is Gregory House. House, this is Rick McGill, one of our new interns."

House didn't want to meet anyone, and he certainly didn't want to shake hands with the intern goggling at him like he was a zoo exhibit. He hung the strap of his backpack on the grip of his right crutch and set the crutches wide to block off what remained of his personal space.

"Sorry, running late, thanks for the hand." He began to move past them, his heart in his throat at turning his back to strangers.

"Huh? House, wait --" Hudson called.

"Sideshow's closed," House called back. "Catch you later."

It would have been easy for them to follow him. He couldn't get up much speed on the crutches, especially with the backpack swinging awkwardly from the grip, but fortunately they seemed too aghast to consider stopping him.

The look on their faces was burned into his brain. He'd seen that look many times.

It was partly recognition. _I know who you are. I know who you were. I know what was done to you_.

The rest was appalled surprise, in all its different incarnations. The doctors trying to patch him together were horrified at his condition. Strangers saw the crutches, stared at his face and his hands. Worst were the people he'd known before. They couldn't help but see the changes in him, and their shock was always clearly written on their faces.

House made it to his office, fumbling the keycard before managing to unlock the door and slip inside, safe behind his walls.

Chase and Foreman had been better at hiding it, but he'd seen their reactions to him when they had followed Wilson to his home. Shock, horror and pity.

Five years ago, House had loathed how pathetic his crippled leg had made him. Whatever he was now, it was well past pathetic.

His heart still pounded. Sweat dampened his T-shirt and he felt himself shaking. He hated it. All of it. Himself, other people, the fear, the pain -- it was all fucking stupid and useless.

The backpack dropped to the floor as House panted for breath, feeling the rage building up inside.

He leaned his back against the door, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He couldn't let the anger take over. His team was waiting for him in the conference room. He had a job to do.

_Deep breaths_, he reminded himself. _Stay in control. Don't feel. Don't remember._

--------------------------------------------

Chase looked up from the lab reports as the connecting door opened. House came into the conference room, but no more than a couple of steps, and immediately dropped onto the nearest chair. His face was pale, and while he glanced in the direction of his subordinates, he didn't actually meet anyone's eyes. "Let's get started," he said, sounding a little out of breath.

Chase traded a look with Foreman -- What's wrong? What do we do? -- that Devi echoed. Clearing his throat, Chase made his voice at light as he could. "Dr. House? Everything okay?"

"Fine. We have to do that doctor thing now."

House ignored their concerned looks and tried to concentrate on the patient reports. Devi talked about Sterling, the woman with the rash, their newest patient. Improvements, new symptoms, test results ... he found himself staring at a pencil on Foreman's desk. A chill iced his spine, and he felt his stomach knot. The pencil was long and yellow and sharpened to a wicked point, exactly like the one the lawyer had shown him.

_"It's easy, really, to deafen a man. All it takes is something like this." House remembered being tied to a chair, the lawyer's cheap cologne stealing his breath, feeling the pencil at his ear. He didn't dare jerk his head away. It would only anger the man._

_A couple of prison guards had liked using the same threat -- either that, or blinding him. And House knew better than to show how much that frightened him. A lifetime of no sound, no sight. There would be only smell, and taste ... and touch. A lifetime of pain and nothing to distract him from it. If he let them see how much the thought terrified him, they would have jumped to do it. A deaf, blind man could still feel pain. He could suffer exquisitely. _

_For whatever reason, his tormentors had never gone through with it, but the nightmare thoughts had plagued him ever since. He had dreams of nothingness, broken by the vibration of footsteps, and cruel hands grabbing him. Couldn't see the blows coming, couldn't hear the threats, couldn't do anything but feel the pain ..._

Devi had seen House staring at Foreman's desk as she'd talked about Wanda Sterling's case. She stopped talking when he flinched slightly, and a low sound like a growl came from his throat. "Dr. House?" His hand whipped out and snatched up a pencil, taking it in both of his maimed hands to break it in two places. He grabbed another pencil and did the same, letting the pieces fall to the floor.

Foreman was on his feet, but Devi waved him back, remembering Wilson's words to her. She slowly approached her boss, seeing the damp collar of his T-shirt, the sweat on his upper lip, how harsh his breathing sounded. "Dr. House?"

He stood up, using his left leg and leaning his hands on the desk, letting his head hang for a moment. "Sorry." His words sounded muffled. "Don't like pencils. Bad experience in third grade."

Foreman shook his head, not buying it for a second. "House, are you --"

"I'm fine." House turned himself to sit on the desk, still pale and sweating, but his expression said clearly that the subject was closed. "Rajghatta, keep talking."

"I, er ..." She cast a helpless look at her colleagues. "As I was saying ... we've eliminated every cause but environmental for the rash ..."

As she continued, Chase angled his position slightly so no one would see his hand slip into the pocket of his lab coat to his pager. By feel he was able to type "H ?" and send the message to Wilson, number three on his call list.

---------------------------------------------

The tired father with the two sniffly kids turned away from the clinic desk toward the waiting room, and Brenda Previn threw the file into the in box. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Terri from the supplies office come up to the counter.

"Hey Brenda, here's your stuff. Form twelves are on backorder."

"Thanks, Terr."

The younger woman's eyes were bright. "Did you hear the news?"

Another would-be clinic patient shuffled in the door, and Previn sighed and called up the admitting screen on her computer. "What news?"

"Greg House is downstairs. He's back at work, from what I heard."

That got Previn's attention. "Who says?"

"Ron Hudson. Says he talked to House when he came in this morning." Terri glanced around. "He talked to Kim, who told me Hudson said House looks like he's been chewed up and spit out." She grinned at Previn. "Ew."

The patient was approaching the desk. "Terri, I'll talk to you later. Patients lining up in the halls, it looks like. Thanks for the word." Previn held up her hand to the patient, making him wait until Terri had turned the corner down the hall, then she swiveled in her chair to address another nurse. "Lois, take over here. I need to talk to Dr. Cuddy." She wasted no time heading for the dean's office.


	15. Chapter 13

Previn marched past the dean's assistant in the outer office and pushed open the inner door without bothering to knock.

Cuddy was on the phone, looking up to see who had barged into her office. After one look at her visitor, Cuddy said into the phone, "Something's come up. I'll call you back," and hung up.

Without preamble, Previn said, "Ron Hudson saw House come in this morning."

Cuddy reached for the phone again. "Maybe if I talk to him --"

"Too late. The talk's spreading all over the hospital."

The dean slapped her palms on her desk in frustration. "Damn it." With a sigh, she looked up again. "Thanks for letting me know, Brenda. And for helping me watch House's back."

Previn nodded. "Hope everything works out okay."

Cuddy watched her go, then snatched up her phone and dialed Wilson's office. She hung up on his voicemail and tried his cell.

"Hello?" His voice sounded echoey and breathless.

"James, Brenda Previn just told me that Hudson in ER saw House come in this morning. The whole hospital will know about it before the day's over, and it's too late for any damage control."

"Oh, hell," Wilson groaned. "I'm on my way downstairs now. Chase paged me."

Lisa felt her heart leap into her throat. "Why? Is House --"

"I don't think it's serious. He's probably just spooked by running into Hudson. Let me get back to you."

"Okay." She put the receiver back on its cradle. Wilson's voice had sounded odd because he was in the stairwell, she realized, running down three flights of stairs because the elevator must have been too slow in coming. Cuddy covered her face with her hands for a moment, thinking. House's return to work was never meant to be a long-term secret. All of the plans and subterfuge were only to buy him a few days of relative peace, some time to adjust to the challenge of working again.

Unfortunately the hospital had no hidden doors or secret passageways. House had to come in by the ER and use his door code to enter; it was hospital protocol in these days of Homeland Security. But she had been confident no one would notice him for at least a few days.

Cuddy glanced at a particular folder on her desk. In it was the hiring announcement, a deftly worded, low-key press release of the sort PPTH sent out routinely to the news outlets whenever a staff position was filled. She planned to wait a few more days before sending it out.

As for her hospital, there was nothing she could do for House now that the cat was out of the bag. She and Wilson had discussed it all at length. The idea was that he be treated normally, so everyone would take his return to work for granted. Any move to treat him as a special case would undercut confidence in him.

No one but herself, Wilson and the diagnostics team should ever know what a huge step this was for House.

"Damn it," she whispered again. She hoped Wilson could keep everything under control.

-------------------------------------------

At the stairwell landing on the first floor James stopped for just a moment to catch his breath and compose himself. He wasn't going to cause a scene by making a panicked rush to the new Diagnostics offices -- particularly if everyone knew House was there. All of the carefully planned subterfuge was about keeping House's return to work as quiet and calm as possible. Wilson and Cuddy both knew how important it was to handle the situation with finesse, to keep House out of the spotlight and make his return as head of the department seem like a natural course of events.

Wilson left the stairwell and walked out into the hallway, keeping his pace brisk and businesslike.

----------------------------------------------

In the conference room, Devi had finished briefing her colleagues about Sterling, and recommended putting the patient in a clean room. House stared at the floor during the discussion, but seemed to be following along. Chase, Foreman and Rajghatta bandied some treatment ideas back and forth, and finally House nodded. "Do the clean room. Test her for uncommon allergens, heavy metals and radiation too. Next."

Foreman picked up the file on Carrig when his eye was caught by movement out in the hall. The Diagnostics department was fairly out of the way, in a hall with little traffic. But Foreman saw a couple of orderlies walk by, acting a little too casual in the way they tried to glance into the room. With a scowl, he dropped the file and went to the window-walls, drawing the vertical blinds and closing them. "Looks like word's got out that Elvis is in the building," he said over his shoulder.

"Hudson's got a big mouth," House muttered by way of a reply. "Back to business."

Foreman went back to the table and picked up the file. "Carrig's scheduled for a --"

A tap at the conference room door interrupted him. Wilson's voice called softly, "It's me, can I come in?"

Foreman let him in. Wilson stood near the door, his hands on his hips, looking at House with the familiar exasperation. "What the hell are you doing, signing autographs in the ER? The whole hospital knows you're back."

Chase relaxed slightly. He'd been wondering how Wilson would explain his visit. If anyone suspected there was a spy among them, Chase knew he'd be the first one fingered. Although at least he could point back at Wilson for wanting him to inform on House.

House chose to open with bravado. "Yeah, well, you know me. Such an attention whore."

Wilson could see that he'd been shaken up pretty good. Clearly House was trying to bluff his way through the morning briefing. To help his friend save face, Wilson shook his head in mock disgust. "Finish up with your team. Then you're going to tell me what the hell's going on."

"Or what, you'll ground me for the weekend?" House turned back to his staff, feeling more steady with Wilson present. "Foreman, go on."

-------------------------------------------

Wilson stayed through the rest of the briefing, seeming to pay little attention when he was, in fact, keeping a close eye on House. The broken pencils on the floor by House's feet didn't escape his notice, either. He wasn't sure what they signified -- there was a lot he didn't know about what House had gone through. House only spoke of it in times of crisis, and even then he didn't say much.

Finally all the patients were accounted for, treatment plans agreed upon, and the team left to start work knowing Wilson was there to handle their skittish boss.

As soon as they filed out the door, House let out a soft breath and relaxed slightly.

From his seat nearby, Wilson raised his eyebrows. "So. Hudson saw you come in?"

"Yeah. I totally forgot to turn invisible when I got out of the car."

"It's not the end of the world. Someone was bound to catch sight of you sooner or later. Is ... everything okay?"

House slid off Foreman's desk, balancing on his left leg, and reached for his crutches. "Just great. Hudson got to play Boy Scout and pick up my backpack for me. Evelyn Johnston stared at me like I had two heads and some idiot intern wanted to shake my hand." House went into his office.

Wilson stooped to pick up the pencil pieces before following him.

House sat at his desk, leaning back in the leather chair and closing his eyes a moment. "All I want is to find out if I can still do my job. I don't want to be on display like some kind of Ripley's Believe It Or Not exhibit." He picked up the big tennis ball and pressed it between his palms.

"It's just the way people are, unfortunately," Wilson sighed. "What's with the pencils?" He got a brief glower instead of an answer. Sitting in one of the visitor's chairs, Wilson shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, House. I know you hate dealing with people, that's nothing new. Think you can handle this?"

Rubbing the ball against the scratchy stubble on his chin, House seemed to be focused inward. "Guess I'll have to try."

"In a few days, Cuddy'll have to announce your hiring. She's not going to allow the press inside the hospital, though. We should be able to keep _them_ away from you, at least."

House gave a quiet snort. "She sent me an email." He swiveled around to face his computer, fingers awkward on the keyboard. "Said she'd have security at all the doors. Might hire some rent-a-pigs." Calling up his email to find the one from Cuddy, House blinked in surprise.

Seeing that, Wilson sat forward to get a look at the screen. It was filled with unread messages sent from within the hospital. There were a lot of '"welcome back"s in the subject lines.

Wilson looked at House's face, seeing the genuine surprise there. House was a man confident in his unlikeability, and he didn't see why the last few years would change anything. These notes of welcome were completely unexpected. Hesitating a moment, House pressed the pagedown key. Another page of messages came up on the screen.

"Jesus." House swallowed. "Hudson really does gossip like a 15-year-old girl."

Wilson smiled. He'd been here during House's trial and imprisonment, had heard all the malicious things said about his friend. But it seemed that once the truth had been made known, most people had seen the real tragedy of what had been done to Greg House and, whether or not they liked him as a person, they wanted justice done. If his job was the only thing House could recover from all he'd lost, it appeared that Princeton-Plainsboro's staff was going to encourage him.

"Well, there's your excuse to while away the morning," Wilson said.

"What? You don't think I'm gonna read all that crap ---"

"Read them, House. And don't even think about hitting that delete key." Wilson got up and retrieved House's backpack, taking out the snacks and packed lunch and canned sodas. He put one can on the desk along with the snacks, and took the rest to put in the conference room fridge. Back in House's office, he said "Lock your office doors to keep out the rubberneckers, and relax. I'll be back for lunch, unless you'd rather I stay ...?"

"I'm fine, Wilson. Go on, you've got work to do."


	16. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Once again, I'm sorry for the delay in updating. It's been a weird couple of weeks including bodily injury and long, long workdays. So here's a nice long chapter to help make amends, and be assured I'm already working on the next one. Thanks to everyone reading!

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Wilson left the ER wing, reassured that House was okay. Relatively okay, anyway. With House, everything was relative. Making a mental note to thank Chase for the page, Wilson detoured toward the dean's office. Cuddy needed an update.

------------------------------------------------

Seeing Wilson at her door, Lisa Cuddy managed to look both worried and relieved as she waved him in.

"House is okay," he said without preamble. "Shaken up, but responsive and still capable of sarcasm."

Cuddy let out the breath she'd unconsciously been holding. "Good. I wish he'd had more time before people found out he was here, but since when has House ever had good luck?" With a sigh she leaned back in her chair. "I've called each department head, told them to instruct their staffs to leave House alone." She smiled wryly. "I didn't exactly put it that way, of course."

Wilson sat on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair, nodding. "The tourists are already cruising by his office. Maybe your calls will help. The conference room blinds were drawn when I got there."

Cuddy sat for a moment in thought. "Will House be okay with this? Are you taking him home after work today?"

"Of course. And I'm going to try to make him go home early." Wilson gestured at the windows. "It's clouding up. A weather front is coming in, and House is probably already feeling it. If it's a strong one he won't be working tomorrow."

Cuddy nodded. She and James had discussed every aspect of House's return to work, and she knew that House might be absent almost as many days as he worked. "That might be for the best anyway," she said softly. "Tomorrow is Friday. Maybe after the weekend people will get used to the idea, be more inclined to leave him alone."

Neither of them really believed it. "Yeah, okay," Wilson sighed. "I'm pretty sure House'll be laid up tomorrow, so that will be three days for things to blow over."

"Does the pain really get that bad?" Her eyes met James', as if hoping he would say no.

Wilson shrugged lightly. "It can. I'll probably put him on a fentanyl patch tonight. When it comes off Sunday night the front will have passed and he'll be up and around, ready to start a new work week."

------------------------------------------------------------

"If one more person asks me about House ..." Foreman muttered, joining Chase to stand at the nurse's station as he signed orders for his patient.

Chase snorted. "Yeah. I'll bet even the housekeeping staff knows he's here."

Foreman shook his head and put the patient file in the rack. "People ask me how he's doing. What the hell am I supposed to say?"

"You smile and say he's fine." Chase started toward the elevator bank, and Foreman fell into step beside him. "He seems to be, mostly. It isn't too much of a lie."

"Weren't you there this morning? He didn't look fine to me."

"He had that run-in with Hudson. He's edgy around new people." Chase's tone sounded placating. "Give House some time. He'll get in step with all of it again."

Alone in the elevator, Foreman turned to face his colleague. "Chase, he freaked out over _pencils_. What's next? Doorknobs? Pancakes?"

"Look, Wilson and Cuddy warned us. They said House still has a way to go, but he _is_ getting better. We should focus on that, encourage his strengths. They asked us to be a buffer for him, remember?"

Foreman slid his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and ducked his head, a sure sign that he was pushing aside his feelings and trying to rethink the matter at hand. "Yeah. I remember. When did you turn into such a Boy Scout?"

Chase smiled ruefully. "I can't help it. I can't forget that our names were on Thompson's contract too. Seriously, Foreman. If you were faced with the same deal, with mine and House's names written down, you'd wish us good luck and spit in Thompson's eye."

The brown eyes regarded Chase levelly. "If my parents' names were on it, I'd have done what House did."

"His parents' names weren't added until later."

Foreman scowled at the floor. "I told you, I respect him for what he went through, and why. It's just... impossible to think of Greg House as some kind of noble martyr."

The elevator dinged and the doors began to slide open. Chase looked at Foreman, shrugged, and walked away.

----------------------------------------------------------

Devi tossed the clinic patient's folder into the "out" box and told the nurse, "Twelve noon, Dr. Rajghatta signs out."

She was glad she'd brought her lunch today. Hiding out in the diagnostics conference room for a quiet hour was just what she needed after a morning spent fending off curious staff members asking about Dr. House. She had to be diplomatic and not say too much, no matter how they grilled her.

The blinds were still closed over the windows when Devi returned to Diagnostics. She didn't mind being hidden from the rubberneckers, but the thought made her feel sorry for House. He must feel like a goldfish in a glass bowl.

In the small refrigerator she found her soup and sandwich shoved to the back behind the store of sodas and snacks Dr. Wilson had brought for House. She tossed her wrapped sandwich on the table and had just put her soup in the microwave when she heard a tap on the door.

A float orderly let himself in, pulling a medical supplies cart. "Hi. Where do you want this stuff?" he asked her.

Devi took a look. The cart was filled with flower arrangements and gift baskets. It dawned on her that these gifts were from hospital personnel, and all were addressed to Dr. House.

"Wow." She looked around. "We have a lot of empty shelves at the moment," she told the orderly, and began helping him transfer the flowers and gifts from the cart.

"Thanks, Doc," the young man grinned at her. "Oh, there's more of this stuff coming, too."

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Chase came into the office 15 minutes and two more deliveries later, stopping in his tracks to stare. The conference room was beginning to look like a gift shop with all the balloons, flowers and gaily wrapped baskets.

When Wilson arrived 30 seconds later, he almost bumped into Chase.

"Whoops!" He caught himself, then also stopped to gape at the display. He looked at Devi, who was seated at the conference table gamely trying to enjoy her lunch. "Has he seen...?" When she shook her head, Wilson's face lit up with a mischievious grin. Striding over to the connecting door, he rapped on it lightly. "House, it's me. Get in here, you need to see something."

House's reply was muffled through the door. "Cripple at work here. Bring it to me."

Chase glanced at Devi and rolled his eyes.

Wilson opened the door and stuck his head in, still grinning. "Get your butt in here."

House stared at him a moment, obviously mistrusting the happy grin. Warily he reached for his crutches and levered himself to his feet with a grimace, then slowly made his way around the desk to the door.

Wilson stepped back and gestured at the gifts taking up most of the room's free space.

House stared at all of it. "Huh," he commented. Crutching over to the nearest shelves, he began examining the offerings.

People who didn't know him well had sent flowers and balloons with cheery messages. The ones who knew him better had sent fruit, food and candy gift baskets.

Those who knew him best had sent booze.

House inspected a couple of wine bottles, a pint of Amaretto and a six-pack of imported beer before stopping to read the label on a bottle of single malt. Under his breath he muttered, "Niiice."

"You'll like this one," Chase said.

House turned from the booze to look at what Chase was holding up. At first all he saw were the dozen brightly colored balloons before realizing they were tied to the handle of a beautifully polished antique cane.

"From Dr. Jenkins and the staff in Orthopedics," Chase told him helpfully.

Wilson saw the almost wistful look House gave the cane. He also saw how much pain it was costing him to stay on his feet.

"Lunch time, House. We'll eat at your desk." He waved House back into his office and closed the door so the others wouldn't see him put an arm around the older man's waist and help him into his chair.

"I'm fine, Wilson," House grunted. It was an automatic response that Wilson had long ago learned to ignore.

"Weather's turning," Wilson remarked with a glance out the windows at the overcast sky. "Take an extra Vicodin today. Tonight we'll get you on a patch."

House leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his forehead. He'd rather Wilson not know about the pain, but there wasn't much Wilson didn't know. James had been with him every step of the way, taking care of him when House's body and mind had both betrayed him. The man had bathed him, for God's sake, when House had been unable to do it for himself.

Just knowing Wilson was alive and well made the nightmare worthwhile. Knowing that Wilson cared and was there for him made House feel both ashamed and pathetically grateful -- two emotions he simply wasn't comfortable showing. A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

"How bad is it?"

House forced a mock-cheery smile. "Not bad at all. You mentioned lunch...?"

Wilson's glare promised the topic wasn't closed.

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A rumble of thunder woke House from his nap. He blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, then checked his watch, trying to ignore the twinge of pain from his shoulder and elbow at the movement. It was 2:30. Wilson had warned him to be ready to leave at 3 p.m., with no crap or whining, under threat of being carried out in full view of his team.

A fond smile twisted House's lips for a second. Wilson knew all the best threats.

Moving slowly, House stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, wincing at the crack of his complaining joints. He rubbed his swollen knuckles and flexed his knees experimentally. Everything hurt. Looking across the room out the windows behind his desk, he could get a glimpse of the gray sky. House glowered at the clouds, and they glowered back, unimpressed.

A knock at his door broke the staring contest. "Dr. House? It's Chase."

"Come." House watched his former fellow come in and blink in the dimness. The only light came from the windows.

Chase saw him reclined in the Eames chair and nodded, holding up some files. "Patient reports. I'll put'em on your desk." He headed for the door again.

"Chase." He saw the younger physician stop. "You've been avoiding me."

"I... what?" Chase frowned. "I've been with patients, and doing clinic duty. I'm not avoiding --"

"You were in love with Cameron."

Chase's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Biting back a groan, House slowly shifted around to put his feet on the floor. "I'm sorry, Chase. I couldn't save her." He closed his eyes, trying not to remember. He had fought with a strength fueled by adrenaline, throwing off two of the men holding him before the third brought him down. He'd even gotten back up, but it did no good. He remembered one of the men dislocating his shoulder in the struggle, how his back had wrenched when he fell again. A solid kick to his right thigh and the searing pain had made him gray out, erasing any chance he had of getting to Cameron and stopping the killing blow.

House hardly noticed Chase bow his head and slowly walk out of the room. The sound of the hall door opening and closing barely registered, either.

The thought of shutting out the memories and walling himself off from the world had an allure he couldn't deny. The catatonia had been a fuzzy, warm, safe place, and when the nightmares did break through, he never remembered them after they were done.

Alluring, yes. But a false safety. House let out a shaky sigh. He had chosen to cast his lot with the world, going back to the cold, hard, comfortless logic of sanity. He owed that much to Wilson.

It felt like every muscle and joint protested as he slowly hauled himself up with his crutches. It was a relief, in a way, the pain that came from everywhere. Years ago when it had just been his leg, it seemed every nerve began and ended there, an enormous black hole of pain. Now the variety served as a distraction. The sharp stabbing in his knuckles, the grinding ache in his shoulder, swift, darting jabs in his ribs ... it was hard to stay focused on only one pain at a time. With everything competing for his attention, no one part got to dominate for very long.

He made his way into the conference room, finding it empty of his staff. Wilson would be along soon, pulling his car up by the courtyard again so that House wouldn't have to exit through the ER, and House had in mind to take home the bottle of single malt, and possibly the beer, too. The rest of the alcohol had better still be there in the morning, he thought, or he'd have to shake down his team.

The hall door opened from behind him, and House looked over his shoulder to issue a warning to whichever of his lackeys to keep their mitts off his booze. His heart stuttered in his chest when he didn't recognize the face of the man glowering at him from the door.

"I had to see for myself. You really _are_ back."

The man was gray-haired and balding, wearing a doctor's white lab coat and a scowl.

House couldn't say anything -- his mouth was desert-dry and his throat felt like it was closing.

"What, nothing to say? God knows why Cuddy wanted you back. Did you blackmail her too?"

A memory came back from before the five years of hell he'd lived through. A memory from the time when the world was normal. He'd had a patient who needed a heart transplant. The patient had been a bad risk and no cardiac surgeon had been willing to do the operation and chance tanking their numbers if she didn't survive, so House had gotten creative. He'd had a little dirt on one of the surgeons and had parlayed that into getting the operation for his patient.

"Pevey?" It came out like a cough from his dry throat. House tried to swallow. "Nice of you to drop by."

"I told the board it was a mistake to hire you back here. As far as I'm concerned, you should've stayed in prison."

"I was innocent. You were the one who committed adultery."

Pevey clinched his fists and strode toward House, his face darkening.

Conditioning made House move back and cast his eyes down. _Not allowed to show anger. Not allowed to meet their eyes. Not allowed to fight back. _The contract's clauses echoed in his mind and he was helpless to stop it. The part of him that wanted to go toe-to-toe with Pevey had long been suppressed and beaten into submission.

Pevey thrust his face into House's, his breath hot. "You worthless son of a bitch. I did what you wanted and you _still_ told my wife. Well, you got what was coming to you. Don't ever come to me for anything again, House, or I'll make sure you'll wish you were never born."

Pevey turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving House shaken and staring at the carpet.


	17. Chapter 15

Wilson looked over at House, who was slumped quietly in the passenger seat. Something had spooked him again, and although he was able to talk he wouldn't say what had happened.

Wilson had come in by the courtyard door to help House carry out his backpack and whatever gifts he wanted to take home, and hadn't seen him in his office. The conference room had appeared empty too, and Wilson had felt a cold wash of panic. He'd been about to turn around and check the office's bathroom when some instinct made him stop and look around the conference room again.

That's when he'd seen House, standing absolutely motionless in the corner behind Foreman's desk.

"House?"

The older man didn't move. His expression was blank as he stared at the floor.

Wilson thought he looked as lifeless and still as a wax figure.

Moving slowly, Wilson took a few steps toward him. "House? It's me, Wilson." He felt his heart racing. What had happened? More than anything else, Wilson feared the catatonia again. He'd lost his friend for years, first to Thompson's machinations, then to prison and then to madness. He'd only had him back for less than a year, and Wilson wasn't going to lose him again. "House?" Wilson reached out to gently touch his arm.

House flinched. His back hit the wall with a thud, his startled gasp loud in the silent room. Wilson saw the flash of fear and dread in his eyes for a split second before recognition flooded in. It seemed to take a few seconds for Wilson's identity to register before House shuddered, letting out a shaky sigh.

"What happened? Is something wrong?" Wilson had both hands on House's arms in an effort to steady them both.

House shook his head, a jerky movement. "Let's go." It was barely above a whisper.

"House --"

"Let's go," he said again, making it a demand.

The clouds had brought darkness early, with the occasional flash of lightning and growl of thunder. Wilson drove them home, doubly worried about House. This weather made him hurt, and Wilson fretted over what had rattled House so badly.

"Did you have a flashback? Did someone talk to you?"

Tired and in pain, House didn't move a muscle except to say, "Nothing happened. I'm fine."

Wilson sighed. "I wish you'd tell me."

"I wish you'd drive faster."

----------------------------------------------------

He got House home and put him to bed. As he fixed dinner Wilson noticed the storm was getting worse, and decided to spend the night. He had put a fentanyl patch on House's arm for the pain, but whatever had spooked him was likely to bring nightmares. While the salmon was broiling, Wilson called Linda McAllister and arranged for her to come over early in the morning. She could tend to House on Friday while Wilson was at work and Wilson would take care of him over the weekend.

He sat with House until the meds finally put him to sleep then cleaned up the kitchen and checked their mailboxes. When a huge yawn took him by surprise, Wilson opted to call it a night himself. There was a recliner in House's bedroom nearly as comfortable as a bed. Wilson had spent many a night in it during his friend's recovery. On the worst nights he shared the bed with House. When it had been that bad, House's only peace came from having Wilson within reach.

Quietly Wilson raided House's dresser and changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, grabbed a blanket, and settled himself in the recliner. House was completely out of it. With luck he'd stay that way until morning and get some real rest. And with luck, Wilson would get some rest, too.

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He woke from a dreamless sleep. It was still dark, but now rain drummed monotonously against the roof. He wondered if that was what had woken him. Then he heard it -- a soft, shuddery "... _djjjuhhhh_..." of House trying to quietly breathe around the pain so his friend could sleep.

Rubbing his eyes, Wilson got out of the recliner and shuffled over to sit on the edge of the bed. "Where does it hurt?" he asked softly, part of their morning ritual. The vial of Vicodin was open on the nightstand, telling him House had already taken one.

"Everywhere."

Still half asleep, Wilson began to massage, working the muscles and joints to loosen the overnight stiffness and pain. By now he knew every scar, every lump and bump of bone and knot on House. As his hands moved over the thin body, House alternately sighed in relief and groaned or swore when a particularly sore spot was discovered. Wilson kept at it. He and House both knew this was the only way to restore circulation and flexibility to House's aching limbs.

Working on arms and shoulders, Wilson murmured, "You're starting to build up some muscle again. Benefit of being up and active."

"Wilson ..."

"Yeah?"

House grunted as Wilson dug his fingers into a tender knot of sore muscle. "... that was totally gay."

In the gloom, Wilson's mouth quirked in a smile. "Say that again and I'll hit you with my purse."

"I'm in enough pain as it is."

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Linda arrived at a quarter to eight and took over the massage therapy from Wilson.

He stood up to give her his place on the edge of the bed and stretched his back, then checked House's supply of painkillers. "You've got plenty. Take it easy today and call me if you need anything." Wilson smiled at Linda. "I'll try to be home on time tonight."

"No problem, Dr. Wilson. Today I can baby sit as late as you need," Linda replied with a wink, getting in the first verbal jab of the day. House's snort was muffled in the pillow.

She began flexing and massaging his left leg as Wilson waved at them and headed for his side of the duplex to shower and dress for work. "So how is it, being back at work?" she asked her patient.

"Boring," House muttered into his pillow. "How's your kids?"

"Not boring," she replied. "I need to check your stitches."

----------------------------------

At last House was able to move without intolerable pain, and Linda sat back. "Okay, let's get you to the bathroom. Want the wheelchair?"

House shook his head and gestured for his crutches. When she brought them he waved her off and, after a couple of tries, managed to stand on his own.

"Need help in there?" Linda asked.

It was a fair question. On days when the pain was this bad he often did need help standing and getting around, and the logistics of using the toilet were even trickier. But he shook his head again and began to slowly make his way to the bath.

Once the door was shut, he went to the sink and leaned against it for a moment. Balancing himself on one crutch, he reached up and felt around the top of the medicine cabinet until he found his prize: the extra Vicodin Wilson had told him to take yesterday. House had slipped it into his pocket instead and stashed it last night before going to bed.

He felt a stab of guilt for not talking to Wilson about it, but he knew there was no way Wilson would allow him to go to work today. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but House had committed to two months. The pain wasn't going to keep him from at least showing up. He might not accomplish anything but sleeping in his office, but at least he could tell himself that he'd gone to work. Thompson wasn't going to ruin that for him.

He looked at the white oblong pill. The second Vicodin along with the fentanyl patch on his arm would help get him to the hospital. After that he could rest all day. He dry-swallowed the tablet.

Linda was freshening up the bedclothes when he came out of the bathroom. "Here you go, Doc. Do you want to sleep some more, or are you ready for breakfast?"

He tried his most beguiling smile, hoping it didn't come off as a perverted leer. "Sleep. But I've been craving ice cream ..."

She raised an eyebrow. "For breakfast?"

"It's dairy, isn't it? Oh, all right. For later."

"Rocky road from that ice cream shop downtown?"

He nodded. "I'll buy if you'll fly. Get whatever you want."

Linda's open face showed her concern. "I shouldn't leave. Maybe they'll deliver."

"I'm going to be sleeping," House sighed. "I'll be perfectly fine, and that's the time you can be gone."

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As soon as he heard the door close he began moving as quickly as he could manage. Dressing himself was a chore between the pain, stiffness and his nearly useless hands, but he was able to get his socks on, then his T-shirt and jeans with only a few whimpers and curses. Reaching for his cordless phone, House called the closest cab company and gave his address. His own car was still on the hospital parking lot, and besides, driving wouldn't be a good idea for him today. He wrestled with the ortho boot, its buckles and velcro taking some time to fasten. He didn't bother with a shirt. The buttons would take too long, and the jacket sleeves would cover his arms. He slid his left foot into a leather loafer, ran a hand through his hair, and put his wallet, pain meds and cell phone into his jacket pockets.

He was breathing hard, sweat dampening his skin from the exertion and the pain. The fentanyl was helping, though, and the two Vicodin muted the breakthrough pain enough to keep him from screaming. House got to his feet again and slowly made his way to his front door to wait for the cab. At the hall desk he stopped to scribble a post-it for Linda. 'Went to work. (heart), H.' It would go on the door when he left.

Hopefully by the time she read it, he'd already be in his office. At least she was getting ice cream out of the deal.

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"Hey, pal, we're here."

The cabbie's words woke House from a light doze. The pain meds were making him hazy and the patter of the rain had sent him off to sleep in spite of the constant aches and pains. House fumbled a twenty out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the driver, then looked around. The awning of the ER staff entrance was only a few yards away. He'd get wet in the rain, but as long as he didn't slip and fall a little rain wouldn't hurt him.

The cab driver got out to open the door for him and steady him as he positioned the crutches to stand. "Got it?"

"Yeah." House blinked the rain from his eyelashes. He was feeling a little woozy and the asphalt seemed a long way away.

"Bud, you don't look so good," the cabbie told him.

"I get that a lot."

The driver shrugged and left him, getting back behind the wheel and driving slowly away. Moving carefully, House crutched forward a step closer to the entrance.

He heard a car door slam nearby, accompanying a low roll of thunder.

"Dr. House?"

Was that Cuddy? Or the girl on his team, what's-her-name? He couldn't place the voice. Turning was a complicated maneuver when he was this whacked out on meds, so he moved slowly, just in time to see a woman in a smart business dress approach him holding a microphone. Behind her, emerging from a van with a television logo on it, was a man with a large video camera.

"Dr. House, I'm Jacki Sissom of WNJK Channel 9. How does it feel to be back at work?"

Another van was parked nearby, its side door sliding open to release another cameraman/reporter team. From a car illegally parked in a handicapped spot, a man with a tape recorder and a camera around his neck stepped out, heading toward House.

They were on him swiftly, and House found himself surrounded, unable to move or speak or think.

"Dr. House, are you recovered from your ordeal?"

"Are you seeing patients again?"

Another van was pulling into the lot, with a different station's logo painted on its side. The cameras trained on him looked all too familiar, he remembered a cameraman from before, in the warehouse ... House edged away as they crowded closer, trying to find room to set his crutches to get away from the staring eyes and shrill voices, the microphones thrust at him like truncheons. Someone bumped his arm and House jerked away. A cameraman moved back to avoid getting jostled and stepped on someone's foot, then stumbled into House. With a sharp cry of pain House went down.


	18. Chapter 16

Wilson finished typing an e-mail to the head of radiology and checked his watch. 9:05. He had a lot to do to catch up on his work from the last couple of days, but he took a moment to look out the glass door to the balcony and watch the downpour.

The balcony used to adjoin that of the diagnostics office -- specifically, the office of the head of diagnostics. Wilson and House had often spent time out there, swapping gossip, talking over a case or just getting some fresh air.

Frank Evans had been a pleasant, professional physician, but he'd been only an acquaintance. Now, with diagnostics moved to the first floor, Wilson wondered who his new balcony neighbor would be. He missed the easy access to his friend -- although he didn't so much miss the rude interruptions and schoolboy pranks.

Wilson smiled. Okay, maybe he did miss them a little. Sort of.

When he'd arrived at work an hour ago he'd called Cuddy and then the diagnostics conference room, explaining that House wouldn't be in today. Neither Lisa nor Chase had sounded surprised. Lisa had asked about House, then said she'd let security know to go back to normal procedures for the day.

Listening to the slap of the rain against the balcony door, Wilson cautiously allowed himself to feel hope.

House was back. He was healing mentally and physically, and if the last two days were any indication he was going to be able to function meaningfully at his job again. His health was far from ideal and he would be haunted the rest of his life by the ordeal he'd lived through, but medicine was his life's work. If anything could put him back on solid ground again, it was this.

Thompson may have chewed him up and spit him out, but House had an indominitable will. If it was possible for him to come out on top, he would

The buzz of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Wilson, it's Linda." Her voice was tense. "House sent me on an errand. I just got back, and there's a note on the door saying he went to work. He's not here."

Wilson gaped at the phone. "He -- he -- he left?! Got dressed and left? He's in no shape --" He broke off the useless protests. "Okay Linda, you stay there. I'll be bringing him home as soon as possible."

Wilson grabbed his desk phone and speed-dialed diagnostics.

"Dr. Foreman."

"Foreman, I just found out House is coming in. He must have taken a cab. Get out to the parking lot and try to get him to go home. I'll be right there."

------------------------------------

Foreman hung up the phone and rolled his eyes. Turning to Chase and Rajghatta, he said, "That was Wilson. Again. Looks like House figured he'd try to come in today. We're supposed to meet him outside and send him back. Anyone got an umbrella?" With an exasperated shake of his head, Foreman headed out.

Chase raised his eyebrows at Devi, and they got up to follow.

Muttering under his breath, Foreman strode to the ER doors. At least one thing had stayed the same: House was still a stubborn ass. He was about to push the door open when he saw the tableau in the parking lot. Reporters and cameramen under umbrellas milled around a central figure: House, who was drenched to the bone with a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. The group of people suddenly shifted. A reporter took a step back, bobbing his umbrella and bumping another station's cameraman who stumbled into House, knocking one of the crutches out from under him. House went down with a short howl of pain.

In a heartbeat Foreman had reached the crowd of TV people, shoving them aside and yelling at them to get the hell away. He forced his way through them to House, who was sprawled on the hard asphalt, his breath coming in gasps around the pain, eyes squeezed shut. The video cams were still running. The Station 10 reporter told his cameraman to zoom in.

The reporters clustered around as Foreman knelt on the wet concrete. "House? Are you all right? Anything broken?"

Gasping for breath, House wrapped his arms around his head as if to ward off blows.

_He was wet and cold, the pain eating him alive and taking away all thought, dimming his sight and leaving him only with the animal instinct to protect himself. The angry taunting voices echoed in the cavernous warehouse as the men did their work, ordering him to recite paragraph and subsection even as their kicks and blows took away his breath. He was desperate to answer but had no voice, and the uncaring eyes of the cameras recorded every moment. There was no way to win, no way to please them, no way to avoid the hurt. He made himself as small as he could, protected his head and just tried to breathe. _

A microphone was thrust at Foreman. "Doctor, is he hurt?"

"Get that damn thing out of my face." Foreman was jostled from behind, almost sent sprawling over his boss. He turned with a choice expletive on his tongue and saw four security guards running toward the scene, Chase and Rajghatta on their heels. Behind them was an ER team.

The security men began hustling off the reporters as Chase and Devi got there, staring down at House in dismay.

Seeing the ER people reaching for him, Foreman blocked their way. "No -- don't do that. Stop! If you start grabbing him it'll just make things worse. Chase, page Wilson."

Rajghatta turned to the confused ER techs. "Get a gurney out here and an amp of Ativan. Hurry!"

Foreman gritted his teeth and risked feeling for House's pulse, careful to touch only his neck. House jerked at the touch, the movement drawing a moan from deep in this throat. His pulse was fast and thready.

A tech came running back, handing Rajghatta a syringe. She went to her knees beside House, who was weakly trying to curl into a fetal position. Leaning over him, she spoke softly into his ear. "Dr. House? It's Devi Rajghatta. It's okay, no one's going to hurt you. It's okay now." She kept her voice low and soothing. "I'm going to give you a shot of Ativan to calm you down. It's okay, shhh..." She stuck the needle into a vein in his hand, pushing the plunger quickly before he could jerk away.

In seconds, he was out. Foreman waved over the gurney, and soon House was lifted onto it. The techs were just getting him to the door when Wilson got there, red in the face and breathless.

"What --? What the hell?"

Foreman touched Wilson's arm as they turned to hurry after the gurney. "We gave him Ativan. He was... he was panicking. I'll fill you in."

Standing in the downpour, Devi watched everyone rush inside. She bent to pick up the abandoned crutches, glad for the rain to hide her angry tears.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Vultures."

Cuddy stood by House's bed, tight-lipped with anger. "We're going to sue those bastards, you better believe it. Coming on hospital property, harassing one of the staff..."

Wilson listened to her rant with half an ear, most of his attention on the man lying pale and still in the hospital bed. "How did the press know about him? You haven't sent out the hiring announcement already, have you?"

She shook her head. "No. I wanted the press coverage to be --" she gestured, a frustrated wave of her hand, "controlled. Not this pack of wolves waiting at the door. The news was all over the hospital yesterday that he was back at work. Probably someone's spouse or family member works in the media."

Wilson stared at House's lined face. He looked peaceful only when he was unconscious. "One station I'd understand. They'd want the scoop. But they wouldn't tell the competing stations."

Cuddy stepped forward and gripped the bed rail, looking at Wilson sharply. "You're saying someone deliberately leaked this information to all the media outlets?"

He just glanced up at her. "I don't know, Lisa. Don't you think it's suspicious that there were three or four TV station reporters and a couple of newspaper people out there all at the same time? That they knew which entrance House uses?" Wilson checked his watch. "He'll be waking up soon."

When the ER team had gotten House to an exam room, Wilson himself had checked him over for injuries. Finding nothing serious, Wilson had sent the ER crew out before starting to remove House's wet clothes. House was an intensely private man. It was intolerable to him that the story of Thompson's vendetta had been on the news worldwide, but there was nothing he could do about that. The marks of abuse on his body were all he had left to hide, and in that Wilson would gladly aid and abet.

Wilson had cleaned him up, dried him off and dressed him in a patient gown. He wasn't badly hurt enough to need an IV or monitors. With the Vicodin and morphine patch he already had, no other painkillers were needed.

Cuddy moved several steps away, not wanting to crowd House when he woke up. Wilson leaned over the side of the bed. "House? Come on, nap time is over."

It took another minute of Wilson's coaxing before House's eyelids began to twitch. He turned his head to the side and mumbled unintelligibly.

"House? Rise and shine, big guy."

His eyes opened slowly, the Ativan's effects still pulling at him.

"Wilson?"

"Yeah. How are you feeling?"

House swallowed, still battling to keep his eyes open even if he couldn't focus them yet. "Drugged. Where ..."

"You're in an exam room. You're dopey from the Ativan. You're coming out of it. I need to check your pupil response, okay?"

At the slight nod Wilson took out his penlight and checked House's eyes, pleased to find the pupils equal and responsive. "You're okay. Just sleep off the drug for a while."

"Wait." House licked his dry lips, trying to raise his hand to grab Wilson's arm. "Why... am I in ER?"

"Relax, House, it's okay."

"If it was okay, I wouldn't be here," he slurred.

Wilson sighed. "Some reporters ambushed you on the parking lot. Someone bumped into you and you lost your balance."

House's eyes moved behind his closed lids as he fought the sedative-induced mental haze. "They wouldn't ... get out of my way. I remember falling ..."

Wilson glanced at Cuddy, who nodded somberly and quietly left the room. "I know, House. The pain must've been pretty bad. You didn't really know what was going on."

Memory started to break through the sedative haze, and a grimace pulled at his features. House swallowed again. "Flashback." He remembered the agonizing jolt through his body when he'd hit the ground, graying out, only aware of a loud mob of people above him. "Jesus. Pathetic."

"Not at all." Wilson's tone of voice brooked no argument. "Pathetic would be letting it set you back. Sleep off the sedative. I'll have Linda bring over some dry clothes for you. By one or so you'll be fine."

"Optimist."

"Pessimist."

"Jewish mother."

"Limping twerp."

That got a wan smile. Wilson gave his friend's hand a reassuring squeeze and watched him until he fell asleep again.

------------------------------------

When he stepped out of the ER exam room to call Linda, the diagnostics team was waiting for him. Their expectant looks ranged from grim to worried.

"He's fine," Wilson announced. No one dared refute him, but body language and expressions spoke for them. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to be patient. "Guys, it's the pain. He was already hurting when he got here. Then the reporters surrounded him. He was okay until he got knocked down. That much pain, all those people standing over him ..." Wilson spread his hands.

"It wasn't the pain that made him unresponsive," Foreman said. "He didn't know where he was. House acted like he thought he was being attacked."

Chase looked uneasy. "Post-traumatic stress disorder. He had a flashback."

Rajghatta stood with her hands in her pockets, thinking. "Dr. Wilson, does he know we were there?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

"Maybe we shouldn't tell him then." Devi caught Foreman's look at her. "Come on, he wouldn't want us to see him like that."

"We _did," _Foreman said flatly. "We're doctors. He knows that."

'We're doctors, but we're not exactly impartial. He's our boss," she argued. "If he'd broken a leg, that would be different. But this is ... well, personal. It's really none of our business."

Foreman just shook his head, making it clear he disagreed.

Wilson rubbed his neck, exhausted from this crisis. Something like this could have driven House back into the catatonia, so it had been an enormous relief when he had woken up from the sedation lucid and responsive. Wilson just wanted a minute to catch his breath and not spend it debating with House's recalcitrant team. "Drop it, guys. House will be fine, he just needs to sleep off the sedative. When he's up I'll take him home. Meanwhile, you three steer clear of him. Let him rest."

-------------------------------------------------------

The hospital was buzzing about the incident. Cuddy could tell from the conversations she sneaked up on, since people tended to can the gossip when they saw her.

Wilson was right. Obviously someone in the hospital had leaked the news. Cuddy didn't want to believe that anyone would do that. She had swiftly gotten the hospital's lawyers to file an injunction to prevent the video footage from being aired, or any reporting of the incident on the air, in print or online. The hospital's attorneys were threatening to file suit for assault

to back up the injunction. She'd then made more calls to beef up security at all the entrances.

Now the board was aware of what had happened, and she'd had to call a press conference for the afternoon to do damage control.

And the oddest thing about all of it was that House wasn't really at fault. A wry smile curved her lips. Now how bizarre was that?

Her smile faded as she recalled walking into the exam room. Of course Wilson had been there, alone, standing by his friend's bed. He'd thrown her a rueful look, but Cuddy's eyes had gone to the figure lying on the bed. He'd been changed into a hospital gown, his hair only damp now. The blanket was pulled up to his waist, but his arms and part of his chest were bare. And covered with scars. Burns, punctures, cuts, abrasions, even bites and lash marks -- she saw evidence of all of those.

Cuddy had stopped short, unaware she was holding her breath.

Wilson had been House's caregiver for almost a year and was used to the sight. Seeing her stare, Wilson shot her a sympathetic look, understanding her shock.

She approached the bed and looked down at her old friend, once her lover. She touched his hand a moment, then rubbed her thumb along a ragged pink and white scar that ran the length of his forearm. Turning his arm over, she saw, clearly delineated in healed scar tissue, the figures "5,2" that had been burned into the flesh.

"They branded him." She wasn't sure if she'd said it aloud, or just in her head. "They branded him like he was cattle." Blinking, she looked over at Wilson. "How did he survive it, James? All those years ... how does someone live through something like that?"

Wilson met her eyes. He had no answers for her. "I don't know, Lisa."

Unconsciously, her hand moved to grip House's limp fingers. Her other hand held his wrist, trying to feel for his pulse through the thick scar tissue there. "How is he?"

It was a relief to get lost in the medical jargon, absorbing stats and figures that told her House would be all right. A relief that the unpleasant encounter had done no physical damage aside from some large bruises. A relief that Wilson was there, handling everything. She told him about the press conference and legal actions, and Wilson seemed comforted that she was taking steps to protect House from further harassment.

-------------------------------------------------------

After lunch, the diagnostics team checked in on their newest patient before heading back to their department lounge. Walking in, they all stopped short at the sight of their boss sitting in a wheelchair at the meeting table, staring at the white board's list of symptoms.

House was dressed in different clothes, and the look on his face as he watched his subordinates file into the room was distant and haunted.

Chase pulled out a chair and flopped down. "We've checked on Sterling. She's responding to the clean room environment."

The intensivist was clearly signaling his colleagues to act like nothing unusual had happened.

"O2 sats?" House asked. He swiveled the chair to face the table and leaned his elbows on its surface, slumped forward.

Devi took a seat next to Foreman and glanced out the windows. It was still raining. House really shouldn't have come in to work today. After that bruising fall on the parking lot he must be wishing he was dead.

"Coming up to normal," Foreman replied. "She'll be strong enough for surgery tomorrow." He looked at his boss squarely. "Our patients are stable. Dr. House, I'll drive you home."

House's sharp eyes studied Foreman, then Chase and Rajghatta in turn. "You three were there." It wasn't really a question. "None of you are wearing your lab coats ... because they're still damp. Foreman, your shoes are wet and there's dirt on the knees of your pants." House remained hunched over the table, as if it would hurt too much to straighten.

Devi nodded. "Yes. We were there."

"It was crazy," Chase sighed. "Those people practically trampled you." He regretted that House had deduced their presence at the scene. The man didn't need that indignity on top of everything else.

Voice steady, eyes on the table, House said, "I had a flashback. Wilson said."

Into the uncomfortable silence, it was Foreman who nodded. "Yeah. Guess so."

A spasm of pain twitched House's lips. "I'm not going home early. The whole hospital knows what happened. Everyone's waiting for me to snap." His gaze came up to meet theirs. "It's not gonna happen."

Chase nodded. "No one thinks that. It's just ... those jackals knocked you down pretty hard. You must have some major bruises. Maybe --"

"Bruises won't kill me. I'll be in my office if anything comes up. Meanwhile, Chase, Foreman, MRI the Braddock woman --" he tapped the new patient's file on the table in front of him "-- and CT her head, too. Raja, see if you can rush the ELISA test on Carrig."

Trading dubious glances, the three younger doctors got up to begin their tasks.


	19. Chapter 17

When the last team member had filed out Wilson walked out of House's office and leaned on the door jamb. All he could see was the back of the wheelchair and House's rounded spine as he sat slumped over the table.

Wilson stood there a good minute, silence between them until House muttered, "Stare all you want, I'm not going home."

"Name one part that doesn't hurt right now."

"My nads," came the sullen reply.

"Well, good for you! House, what the hell are you trying to prove?" Wilson walked around the table so he could see his friend's face. "You shouldn't even be out of bed on a day like today."

"Yeah, about that ..." House kept his eyes on the tabletop. "The extra Vicodin you told me to take yesterday? I took it this morning. With my usual dose."

Wilson clapped a hand over his eyes. "Two Vicodin _and_ the fentanyl patch. Well, that explains how you got this far."

"Better living through chemistry."

Pulling out a chair, Wilson sat down and stared until House had to meet his gaze. "Why?"

House winced and looked away, but Wilson touched his wrist. "_Why_ is it so important for you be here today? None of your patients is critical. I know what this weather does to you. You've told me how much it hurts, and I've seen for myself." Wilson shook his head, frustrated. "Why couldn't you just have stayed home?"

House blew air under his upper lip, eyebrows slanting up as he glanced at the ceiling. "Because ... today is Friday."

Wilson ducked his head and hunched slightly as if he could pull an explanation out of the other man by willpower alone. "... Yes ...?"

"I started work Wednesday. I'm supposed to work through Friday."

Wilson's mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. "I'm sure that must mean something. At least to you. But I've told you, Lisa knows that there'll be times when you need to rest at home. It's not a problem."

"This is my first week back -- a half week at that. How's it going to look if I can't even manage a lousy three days?"

"It'll look like --- like a man who's on his way back from death's door! House, you can't be ashamed that you're recovering!"

House looked at him then, stony-eyed. "I'm not a goddamned charity case, Wilson. I was hired to do a job." His voice rose. "If I have to do it from a fucking wheelchair or even a hospital room, I'll by-damn _do_ it."

Wilson met his gaze, glaring back. If he dared tell House how much those words sounded like John House, crippled or not House would throw him across the room. That damn stubborn pride was infuriating ... but without it, House would never have survived the aftermath of Thompson's nightmare.

The brown eyes glaring into House's softened. "You aren't the charity case, Greg. _We_ are. Me and Lisa. Chase and Foreman. Have you ever looked at this from our eyes?" He had House's attention with his quiet words. "We know what you did for us. Even Chase and Foreman, who don't know any of the details, know how much they owe you." He watched House prop his elbows on the table and put his hands over his face, exhausted. "Yeah, you were hired to do a job. But what you do, what makes you a genius, isn't physical. You could do it from a wheelchair or a hospital room, or even your own bed. Greg, ease up. Give yourself the chance to heal. We owe you so much more than that."

From behind the knotted fingers, House sighed. "No one owes me anything. I told you that. I did what I did by my own choice."

Wilson nodded. He didn't agree, but he knew House didn't consider himself a kind, good man. To admit that he sacrificed everything to spare others' lives would contradict his own self-image.

"They were there," House mumbled.

"Who? Where?"

House dropped his hands from his face. "My team. They were outside on the lot after I fell."

"Oh. Yeah, they were." Wilson guessed what House wanted to know but couldn't ask. "It wasn't a big deal. You had your arms up protecting your head and you were unresponsive to Foreman's questions. It was obvious you didn't want to be touched, so they administered the sedative."

House flexed his left hand with a grimace. "Guess I should be glad I got it in the hand, even though it burns like hell."

"I handled everything after that," Wilson reassured him. "I knew you'd want everything kept private."

House stared at his knees. "Thanks."

"House ... Cuddy and I think someone tipped off the press. Is there anyone here you think would have done that?"

A face, red with anger, flashed through House's mind. "No. I'm universally loved and admired."

Wilson snorted.

A tiny smile ghosted over House's lips for a second, but was quickly replaced by a heartfelt wince. "I'm starring on the six o'clock news tonight, huh."

"Nope." A grin lit Wilson's face. "Cuddy's on top of the situation. Slapped injunctions on all the media outlets, threated to sue for harassment and assault." He checked his watch. "In fact, she's holding a press conference in 20 minutes. You've got nothing to worry about." He stood up and stretched his back. "Come on, I'll take you home. You came to work, proved your point. Let's go."

House shook his head. "Let me take another Vicodin. I'll need it."

Wilson frowned. "For what?"

Dread shadowed House's eyes. "For the press conference."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Devi tried to focus through the microscope eyepiece, but the image was blurry. Impatiently she raised a hand to wipe at her eyes. It had been this way all day. Work would distract her for a time, then she'd remember that circus on the parking lot, House lying on the wet asphalt surrounded by people who didn't seem to care, wouldn't even hold an umbrella for him, barking questions all the while as he curled up, lost in who-knows-what nightmare memory ...

"Damn it," she muttered, angry with herself. She wasn't some naive first-year med student, or even that sentimental of a person. House would tell her it was better to not think about it, but how could she stop?

"I know how you feel," came a quiet voice from the door.

Devi turned in her chair, startled, to see Chase standing there.

He offered her a pained smile and came in, leaning on the counter a few feet away from her. "In the old days, House would have leveled that bunch with just a few well-chosen words," he said to the rack of test tubes in front of him. "What's been done to him just ... isn't decent."

She nodded. "I was afraid that this would send him home for good. That he'd give up on trying to work. But he doesn't seem to be giving up."

"He's a master at putting up a good front. But he's also stubborn. Part of me hopes he'll stay. Get his life back again."

"Part of you?"

Chase toyed with a pipette. "Maybe this is more than he can do. Or maybe it's just too soon. I know he doesn't want to be the center of attention, but he is. I don't want all of this to affect patient care." He sighed. "Being around House again ... there's a lot of memories. And they clash with who he is now. I know _I'm_ distracted. I'd bet Foreman is too. I don't want our patients to suffer because of that." He could still hear House's words, adrift in that dark room, saying, 'You were in love with Cameron. I'm sorry, Chase. I couldn't save her.' House had been forced to watch her die.

Devi saw Chase hunch his shoulders, his thoughts far away. "Chase. Robert... it's been only three days. We were warned what it would be like when the press found him. Give it some more time. Soon things will go back to normal." She wasn't sure what she meant by normal, but she hoped her words would comfort her colleague.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson felt like every eye was staring at them. He was pushing the wheelchair, and in it, House sat as straight as he could, the crutches propped across his body, trying not to look at anyone. Cuddy marched beside him, the steely gleam in her eye warning everyone off. And this was just the trip to the first-floor elevators.

The idea of House going to the press conference had at first seemed crazy, but it hadn't taken long for Wilson to think it through. What better way to show the press that House was fine? Unhurt by the morning's encounter, strong, confident and capable. All but the last being a total lie, of course, but the press wouldn't know that. Wilson had called Cuddy, and when she'd stormed into the diagnostics conference room to set them both straight on this ludicrous idea, she too came around to the simple solution it offered. House insisted he would crutch himself into the press room, although he needed the wheelchair to get that far.

When the elevator doors closed, Cuddy pressed 3. "Are you sure you can handle some questions?" She glanced down at House, seeing the tightness around his eyes, evidence of the pain even the extra Vicodin couldn't erase.

"It'll be fine, Cuddy." He was watching the floor numbers light up and dim, one by one, as the lift ascended. Just before the elevator doors opened he muttered, "Let the freak show begin."

Cuddy threw him a look as she walked out of the elevator beside him.

Patients, visitors, staff, students ... everyone looked. Most of them didn't know him, and didn't stare. This was a hospital, after all, and people in wheelchairs were nothing special.

But those who had known him from before and those who recognized his face from the news coverage did double-takes, stopping whatever they were doing to stare. House didn't meet their eyes.

Softly, Cuddy said to him, "You've got nothing to prove to anyone."

"They're going to keep hounding me until they get what they want." His voice sounded breathless and tight.

"That's what the lawyers are for," she reminded him.

He looked up at her. "They going to follow me home?"

Cuddy shook her head, aware that she looked angry. She _was_. Events shouldn't have happened this way. She should have taken better precautions, avoided this whole mess.

"Dr. House?"

Wilson turned to look over his shoulder even as House said, "Keep going." It was Dr. Ajunta, jogging slightly to catch up and overtake the procession.

Cuddy smiled tightly. "Dr. Ajunta, we're going to a meeting --"

He nodded at her. "I won't keep you. I just wanted to tell Dr. House --" he looked down at House, his dark eyes friendly, hiding any surprise or dismay, "Welcome back to Princeton-Plainsboro, doctor." He offered his hand.

House had never been a master of social graces, and his experiences in the past few years hadn't added any polish. But he managed to nod, and after a second lifted his hand to clasp Ajunta's.

"Thanks." It was a hoarse whisper.

Ajunta nodded back. "Don't let the bastards get you down," he said quietly, gripping House's maimed fingers carefully before letting go. With a nod to Cuddy and Wilson, Ajunta went on his way.

Out of the corner of his eye, House saw several of the hospital staff watching the little scene. Cuddy must have noticed too. She started walking again and opened the door to an empty patient room. "Are you sure you don't want to stay in the wheelchair?"

Wilson helped House position the crutches and set the brakes on the chair.

"Not how I came in," House grunted, letting Wilson help him get to his feet. "Gotta put on a good show for the locals." The press room was just down the hall. House felt the pain spiral through his right leg from hip to foot. His back, collarbones and shoulders ached, and the mended bones in his arms and feet chimed in to complain. Today wasn't a good day for ambulating to begin with. Standing with the help of his crutches, he could feel the consequences of his morning's spill on the parking lot. Wilson had let him have an extra Vicodin, though. With luck he could last through the meeting.

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Inside, a long conference table dominated the room, set up with microphones. The hospital's video crew had its camera positioned, and PPTH's lawyers stood with the PR staff, talking with them. Television and newspaper reporters were arriving through a door in the back of the room, taking their seats at the big table. A few more officious-looking suits sat interspersed among them -- attorneys, House presumed. When he stepped into the room, a stir spread through the assembled media representatives.

Cuddy gestured him to a chair near the head of the table, knowing he needed to sit as soon as possible. Ignoring the eyes on him, House took his seat and propped his crutches on the edge of the table. As Cuddy spoke with the lawyers and PR people, House kept his unsteady hands under the table and avoided looking at anyone.

At last everyone took their seats, and Cuddy stood at the head of the table. The room quieted as the camera's red light went on.

She began the conference, adept at this aspect of her job. Cuddy greeted the assembled media reps and thanked them for coming, then coolly but thoroughly chastised them for the circus they had created that morning outside her hospital. She deftly downplayed the significance of House returning to his job at PPTH. From her tone and choice of words, she made it sound not only expected but inevitable, and segued into praising House's talent and medical reputation.

"When I called this meeting, I made it clear that Dr. House would not be present. As you can see, he felt it necessary to be here, against my advice. At the conclusion of this meeting, Dr. House will take your questions."

She went on to explain the legal action PPTH planned to pursue for the harassment of one of its staff and outlined how the media was expected to behave while on hospital grounds.

The media lawyers argued points with her and the hospital's attorneys as the reporters took copious notes. House half-listened to the proceedings, concentrating on sitting straight in his chair and showing none of the pain that wracked him. The meds took some of the edge off so long as he wasn't moving around. His breathing had steadied, at least.

The lecture portion of the conference wound to a close too soon for his taste, and Cuddy reluctantly allowed the reporters a few questions. It hadn't escaped House's notice that he was seated between the hospital's chief attorney and its PR head.

"Dr. House, were you injured this morning?"

With all eyes on him, House felt his chest constrict. "I'm fine. Just some bruises."

The attorney beside him cleared his throat. "Dr. House sustained no serious injuries, However, he was briefly stunned by the fall."

Ah. That was how they were going to explain the defensive behavior he'd shown. House tried not to wince at the thought of these reporters watching him cringe.

"Dr. House, how does it feel to return to work?"

He shrugged. "It's fine. It's time to get on with my life." He certainly wasn't going to confess his self-doubts to the press. House knew Cuddy was striving to set a business-as-usual spin on his return to work, and he tried to reinforce that.

"Do you feel sufficiently recovered to go back to your job?"

"Yes." He didn't volunteer more.

"How do your colleagues and patients feel about your return?"

House darted a look at the reporter asking the question. "Ask _them_."

Cuddy took point on that one. "The hospital board voted to offer Dr. House his former position when it became vacant. We're all pleased to have him back at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

"Dr. House, have you fully recovered from your experiences?"

Good question, he conceded silently. "I'm back at work." That was all the answer he'd give them.

The hospital's chief lawyer stood up and raised his hands. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the press. Dr. House has answered your questions, and I'd like to remind you that a lawsuit is pending, requiring the media not to approach him or any of the hospital's staff. Questions may be directed to myself or Dr. Cuddy."

House stayed where he was as people got up and began filing out. He caught the scent of Wilson's aftershave a second before he felt the hand on his shoulder.

"You were right, House. Coming to this meeting was exactly what you needed to do." Wilson leaned a hip against the table, watching the room empty out. "It's 1:40. Time to start your weekend."

House looked up at him, measuring his odds of defying Wilson again today. They didn't look good. "Can we drive through BurgerMac on the way?"

"I thought you had ice cream waiting at home."

Realization hit him then: He was going to have to face a very angry Linda McAllister when he got home. "Uh ... can I stay at your place?"


	20. Chapter 18

A/N: As I always seem to be saying, I apologize for the delay in updates. So here's the beginning of House's weekend off, and to everyone reading this chapter: do NOT panic at the last line. Take deep breaths and think of your happy place... all will be fine.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson parked his car in the driveway and shut off the ignition. "You want the wheelchair?"

From the passenger seat House eyed the falling rain, then looked at the front door warily. "I think I can get in with the crutches. I'll take my time. Go ahead and send Mac home."

"No way." Wilson rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." House shot him an 'I hate you' look, which only widened Wilson's grin. "You'd better treat her nice, House. She's worth her weight in gold just for putting up with you."

At that moment the front door opened and Linda emerged, pushing the wheelchair.

"Uh oh," House muttered under his breath.

She opened his car door and positioned the chair. "Hello, Doc. Hope you had a nice day." The look in her eyes contradicted her words.

Wilson tried desperately to keep his expression bland, knowing exactly what she'd _like _to say to her charge. Linda knew very well how much House had suffered over the last several years, mentally and physically. She knew not to threaten him with anything that could remotely be taken seriously, no matter how badly House's childish behavior tempted her. House had endured enough threats, pain and contempt for several lifetimes.

Despite the fact that she'd always treated him with kid gloves, House knew he'd pushed her pretty far this morning. He watched her as if she were a cobra. "Hey, Mac," he said cheerily, trying to brazen his way through. "I've got the crutches, I can --"

"Get your ass in the chair," Linda cut him off with a sweet smile.

A snort escaped Wilson before he could stop it. He grabbed the bags of fast food and got out of the car before House could even think about punching him.

Linda helped her patient transfer to the chair and wheeled him inside.

"Did you pick up that charming bedside manner from your internship in the gulag?" he growsed.

"You know, I liked you a lot better when you couldn't talk," she returned, pushing the wheelchair into the living room.

"You should be glad I can. I'll advocate for you when you sue the surgeon who did your gender reassignment."

"Doc, when you were born, how did the doctor know which end to slap?"

Wilson let the snark flow. It was how Linda and House expressed their affection. He set the food out on the coffee table and waved them over. "Linda, did you have lunch? We brought you some."

Her smile to Wilson was genuine. "Thanks, Dr. Wilson. I probably shouldn't, though, since I ate Doc's ice cream."

House glared at her.

She returned it. "All of it."

Wilson fought back another smile. "C'mon, have a seat."

-----------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Linda was filled in on the events of the day they had finished eating and House's Vicodin boost was wearing off.

Linda helped Wilson clear off the remains of their late lunch then turned to her patient. "Doc, why don't you kick back for the rest of the day? Dr. Wilson and I can help you change and get in bed before I go."

House was fidgeting in his wheelchair. The waning Vicodin in his system was allowing the breakthrough pain to creep in, making him uncomfortable and restless. "Then you'll tuck me in and read me a bedtime story? I'm fine. Go home."

That was pretty much the response she'd expected, so she turned to her employer. "Dr. Wilson? I'll be glad to help you settle him in for the night."

Wilson nodded. "He's got some impressive bruises from that fall. I'll take you up on that, be faster and easier on him with both of us. Then --"

"Hey, I'm still in the room," House growled.

Wilson ignored him. "-- we need to draw blood for his weekly labs, too. Get a BP and temp, listen to his lungs. Don't want him getting sick from being out in the rain --"

"Oh, for God's sake," House snarled. "I'm perfectly fine, and I want to stay up and watch the news."

"That's why you have a big-screen TV in your bedroom, Doc," Linda told him. "We know you're okay. But it makes us feel better to cluck and fuss. And you're stuck with it." She slid a look at Wilson. "It's really true. Doctors make the absolute _worst _patients."

House was scowling. "Because we know all about incompetent nurses," he sniped. He was, in fact, exhausted from the eventful day. A roll of thunder from outside reminded him he was due for some pain meds. It was hard to believe that there had been a time in his life when he'd loved rainy, stormy days.

Wilson and Linda made a good team, working together to get him out of his work clothes and into a soft, clean shirt and pajama pants with a minimum of exertion on House's part. Despite his insults, Linda McAllister was an excellent nurse. While Wilson took a few minutes to go to his side of the duplex to change and grab a few things, Linda drew blood for the tests and gave House a quick but thorough exam.

"Helluva bruise on your hip there," she commented.

"Wilson pays you to stare at my ass? Cushy job."

"Nothing cushy about it, you ornery cuss." She looked over the stitches on his knee, then the ones on his foot. "Didn't tear any stitches, at least. You've got more bruises on your arms. One up by your shoulder. You're lucky all you got were bruises from such a hard fall." Like Wilson, Linda had grown accustomed to the scars that marked House's body. She was glad she'd begun caring for him while he was catatonic. By the time he'd emerged from that blank helplessness she'd mostly gotten past her crying jags. More than once Dr. Wilson had tried to comfort her and gotten sniffly himself.

Linda studied her patient for a moment, watching him try to find a comfortable position on the pillows stacked behind him. He'd been such a pitiable creature when she'd first met him, silent and focused inward, always on guard for the next blow to fall. He had been childlike in his lack of self-awareness, pliable unless he was frightened or accidently hurt.

Now that he was himself again, she still found him to be a child, by and large, with a prickly personality and a wicked talent for reading and manipulating people. Some of it was a front, she figured; a shield to hide behind. Linda suspected that what he wanted so desperately to hide was his unhappiness, his loneliness and how much he needed unconditional acceptance. He probably didn't even believe in unselfish love, despite the examples right in front of him. He himself had paid such a high price to spare the lives of others. And there was the example of Dr. Wilson, who clearly loved House like a brother and would do anything for him.

She patted his left foot affectionately. "You get some rest over the weekend, Doc. That hospital needs you."

--------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson walked in the front door just as Linda was preparing to go.

"I'll take the blood to the lab on my way home," she told him, bustling to gather up her purse and medical kit. "His temp is normal, lungs sound fine. BP's a little high, but he's had quite a day. Oh, and I lied about eating his ice cream. It's in the freezer if he wants some."

Wilson grinned. "It would serve him right if you did eat it. Linda, I'm sorry about this morning. I warned you, House is tricky."

"As if I don't know that for myself," she snorted. "But better this than how he was at first. He's coming along, Dr. Wilson. If getting to work this morning was that important to him, well, then he's got something to hope for."

--------------------------------------

Wilson watched her go, her words echoing in his thoughts. Something to hope for. It was all he'd wanted for House -- and truthfully, for himself as well. Life was built on hope.

During the long months of House's catatonia hope had been hard to come by. There had been no way to know if his friend's disassociation was mental illness, a temporary coping mechanism or the result of brain damage from stroke, trauma, aneurysm, malnutrition ... the list of possible causes was nearly endless in House's case.

Wilson had often found himself at the end of his emotional rope. He'd finally gotten House back from his exile in hell, only to realize that what he'd gotten was the shell of a man. Some days it was more than he'd thought he could bear.

Clarence had been a godsend. Finding Linda to replace him was a miracle.

A strobe-flash of lightning made Wilson blink and he moved away from the window.

Although he'd rejoiced at House's return to sanity it didn't necessarily make life easier. It was a joy and a relief to be able to converse with his friend again and see intelligence and reasoning behind his eyes once more, but with sanity came awareness of the future.

And what sort of future could House look forward to?

Wilson glanced around the townhouse living room. No piano. No guitar on the wall. House never brought up the subject; his hands were ruined for such pursuits. Music had been the man's only emotional outlet, and if there was ever a time in his life when House needed such an outlet, it was now.

As House grew stronger, enduring surgeries to correct what damage could be corrected, Wilson had begun talking to Lisa Cuddy about the possibility, someday, that House might return to work in whatever capacity he could manage.

Wilson had desperately wanted to offer House some kind of future, some kind of hope. Thompson had tried to beat into him that he was nothing, nobody, and that there would never be any hope.

Like hell, Wilson thought angrily. House needed deprogramming. Getting him back to work was the only thing Wilson could think of to do that.

If House was willing to lie, cheat or steal to go to work, that was definitely a positive sign.

Cheered a bit by that thought, Wilson walked back to the bedroom. House was propped against a nest of pillows, shifted slightly to one side to spare the massive bruise on his right hip. He lolled his head toward the door to look at Wilson, expression neutral. "One of these days Linda's going to punch you," Wilson told him conversationally.

"Yeah? Bet she hits like a girl."

Wilson didn't want to explore that topic. "Give me a pain rating."

The blue eyes blinked and wandered around the room. "Fentanyl's keeping it at around six."

Wilson found a bottle of one of the non-opioid painkillers in House's arsenal. "You can take one of these for now. This weather doesn't seem in a hurry to move along."

House shook hs head. "No. Those make me fuzzy. I want to stay awake for the news."

With a sigh Wilson plopped down in the recliner and stretched his legs. He didn't doubt that the TV stations would run footage from the news conference. After all, this would be the first time the public had seen or heard House himself since he was arrested more than three years ago. Big news, indeed.

House seemed to be ahead of his train of thought. "Once it goes local ..."

"Yeah. It'll be all over the world by the 10 o'clock news. Sorry, House. We _did_ talk about it."

"I know. If I'm going to work, I have to go public." One hand moved down to gingerly rub his knee.

Relaxed in his chair, Wilson absently watched him. After House came out of his mental fugue he'd faced a difficult period of adjustment. It was one thing to be so broken when your days consisted of lying in a dark, cold cell with pain, hunger and fear your only focus. What did it matter if your hands or legs or anything else worked when there was nothing to use them for? He'd gone from that state of mind to shock, then to catatonia. When he'd come out of that House had suddenly found himself coping with the idea of functioning again.

Healing was almost a foreign concept to him, and the thought of having a life free of Robert Thompson's control was overwhelming.

In those months as House had slowly taken a sort of mental and physical inventory of himself. In the last few years he had never bothered to grieve over the damage done to him. What was the point? There would just be more. That had been House's only certainty.

When he realized that he now had his life and autonomy back House had become emotionally flat for many long weeks -- rational but distant, as if he were drugged. He spoke infrequently as he struggled to let the world come in again, a little at a time.

Wilson remembered one day when House had raised his hands and stared at them as if he'd never seen them before. "They look like squashed spiders," he'd commented with no emotion whatsoever. Wilson had silently agreed.

Emotion had slowly come back to House, mostly in the form of quiet resignation. What was done was done. What was lost ... if House had ever shed tears over what had been taken from him, Wilson had never seen them.

"The Indian girl stares at them, too," House suddenly said.

Wilson started and turned his gaze to meet his friend's. "What?"

"Raja. She stares at my hands."

He couldn't think of a thing to say, but House didn't seem to need a reply.

"When was the last time you had a vacation?"

"I ..." Wilson frowned. "Why? Who cares?"

House rubbed the back of his hand along his jaw, the beard stubble making a dry, raspy sound. "Go to Hawaii. Tahiti. Jamaica. Get drunk, go swimming and find some island girls."

When Wilson only stared at him uncomprehendingly, House sighed. "You need to get away, Jimmy. Your life doesn't revolve around me. Take a break. Then come back, get a girlfriend -- or God forbid, another wife. Have kids. Get a dog or something."

Wilson couldn't fathom what House was getting at. He could only stare at him.

House leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "This is wrong. You feel guilty, and that's not ... I don't want that. I wanted you to live. I wanted Thompson to leave you alone so you could have a normal life, not spend it nursemaiding me."

Slowly, Wilson nodded. "A normal life," he repeated thoughtfully. "House, do you remember back before all this? All the times you told me I'm at least as screwed up as you are? And all the times I agreed it was true?"

House was eyeing him.

"So what _is_ a 'normal life' for someone like me?"

House said nothing.

"Another failed marriage? How many should I go through before I admit I'm no good at it?" Wilson looked down at his hands. "I don't have relationships. When it comes right down to it, I just have sex with temporary girlfriends." He shrugged. "So what else is there? I have a job. I have friends."

"Wilson." House cleared his throat, which did nothing to ease the roughness of his voice. "Jimmy. I'm not your brother."

"You think that's what this is? You're some kind of stand-in for him, and by helping you I can feel like I'm helping him?" Wilson smiled. "Your psychology sucks, House."

"On the whole, psychology usually does," House admitted.

"Greg, I'm here because I want to be. I choose to be. Not out of guilt or obligation but because you're my friend. If I want to get married and have kids, then I'll do it -- and still be a big part of your life, because that's what I want." He pointed at the other man. "So shut the hell up."

Shutting up was an impossible goal for House. "Still might want to think about that vacation. Do you good."

"And leave you to ride roughshod over Linda?" He thought about it. "On the other hand, you two might elope while I was gone. Forget it."

House snorted a laugh.

------------------------------------------------

WNJK's segment on House took up a good chunk of its air time, prominently showcasing the footage of House at the press conference.

Wilson noticed that the hospital's cameraman had taken no close-ups of House. He wondered if it was on Lisa's instructions. House was shown answering the reporters' questions, his answers brief and sure, his demeanor calm. But even the camera's long shot of him showed him thin and haggard, a man who had suffered.

"I won't get an Oscar for that performance," House muttered. The image of the conference was replaced by one of a reporter standing in front of PPTH, looking seriously into the camera.

"Dr. Gregory House has come out of the long shadow cast by Robert Thompson's vendetta and is bravely reclaiming his life after months of seclusion. We can only marvel at the resilience of the human spirit and wish him well. This is Jackie Sissom at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Back to you, Bob."

House threw a pill bottle at the screen and gave a loud groan. "What utter crap." He sighed. "Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven --"

"What are you counting?"

" -- Five. Four --"

The cordless phone on the nightstand rang. House fumbled the receiver, looking at the caller ID before hitting 'talk.' He cast a mournful look at Wilson and said, "Hi, Mom."

Grinning, Wilson got up and headed for the kitchen. A dish of ice cream would be perfect right about now. He opened the cabinet and took out two bowls, almost dropping them when his own cell phone buzzed. He grabbed it. "Hello?" He recognized the voice immediately.

"James? It's Stacy."


	21. Chapter 19

"James? Are you there?"

Wilson blinked. "Yeah. I'm here." Hearing her voice had caught him off guard.

"I saw the news just now," she was saying. "I couldn't believe --"

"Wait, you said -- you saw the news? You're in town?"

"I'm renting a place in Short Hills," she said, words clipped with impatience. "I don't work in Paris anymore."

"But why are you back here? You don't have family here, so --"

Stacy made a frustrated sound. "It's a long story, I'll tell you later. Dammit, James, I saw Greg on the news! They said he's gone back to work." Her shock carried clearly over the cell phone's tinny speaker. "God ... I barely recognized him."

Wilson leaned against the counter and closed his eyes, wishing he was more prepared for this conversation.

Stacy had been gone a long time. After the infarction House had driven her away in his bitterness and anger. She had gone to Washington, D.C., and kept in touch with Wilson every few months. James counted her as a friend, although not a close one. And he knew that he and Lisa Cuddy were Stacy's only link to House. Every time they talked she would ask, as casually as she could, how House was doing.

They had been out of touch when Stacy had taken a partnership in Paris, and that's where she had been when House was arrested for Cameron's murder. Not knowing she was out of the country Wilson had tried to find her, hoping desperately that she could use her legal knowledge, any influence she had, to help House, but he hadn't been able to locate her. By the time she had contacted Wilson, she'd been in Paris for over a year and House had been incarcerated for six months. When he'd told her what had happened, her shock had been profound. Stacy had taken a trip back to the states and dug furiously into the court records, talked with people she knew, but found nothing she could do about House's life-without-parole sentence. And no matter how hard she tried, she was not allowed to visit him at the prison.

Wilson remembered how she'd looked the last night he'd seen her. Defeat and despair had aged her in a few short weeks. It made him wonder if he looked the same. She had vowed not to give up, but for now there was absolutely nothing she could do to help Greg. Stacy had never, for one second, believed House was capable of killing anyone, much less Allison Cameron.

She had fled with her grief back to France, and Wilson had heard nothing from her until Thompson's death and his connection to Greg House came out in the news. The case had been sensational, garnering huge press coverage that caught the world's attention. By the time she learned what had happened and was able to track Wilson down, House had already been exonerated.

Out of respect for House's privacy Wilson had told her very little. Only that House was in bad shape and was in seclusion. Stacy wasn't stupid. She knew Wilson was House's caregiver, but no matter how she phrased her questions or stated her demands to talk to Greg, Wilson stood firm. He told her next to nothing of House's condition, refused to give her an address or phone number besides his own cell phone. He also made it a point to tell her not to talk to John and Blythe House. Between the horror that had happened to their son, the hounding by the press and Blythe's stroke, they didn't need any more aggravations.

Wilson knew House didn't want anyone to see what Thompson had left of him. Wilson fiercely guarded his friend's privacy from everyone. Only Lisa Cuddy got to stand a step or two inside the fortress walls. Stacy was left knowing only what the public knew, that House had been starved and tortured, but nothing more. She never knew of the catatonia or the fears that still plagued House, or the status of his physical recovery. Cuddy kept House's secrets too, so Stacy had no inside information except the very little Wilson would tell her.

Letting out a slow breath, Wilson said, "I'm sure you were surprised, but he's fine. He's --"

"Fine?" Her tone was harsh. "You call that fine? James, he looked --" Stacy caught her breath sharply, fighting tears. "He looked half dead. You said he was getting better!"

"He _is_. He's a thousand times better than he was," Wilson snapped. He tried to wrestle down his irritation, reminding himself that Stacy had nothing to compare to. She couldn't envision the ghost of a man Wilson had taken into his care. He heard her sigh, trying to get a grip on herself.

"You're angry," she said, "but you're trying to keep your voice down. He's there, isn't he. You're at his place. Or for all I know you two live together."

"Stacy, we don't --"

"Let me talk to him, James. Just once, to hear his voice so I can know he's getting better."

"I ... I can't do that," Wilson stammered. "He's on his phone with someone else. But I'll give him your number, tell him you called and want to talk to him."

"And we both know he'll jump to call me back." Defeat made her tone bitter. "James, I know how he feels about me. But I've never hated him. Don't make me feel like a criminal for simply caring."

It was Wilson's turn to sigh. "That's not what I'm doing. Stacy, House is damn lucky to be alive. For the last few months all he's been able to do is cope with healing and just ... living. His health and state of mind are still fragile. Going back to work is a huge step for him. He needs time to process it all and the fewer physical and emotional demands on him, the better. If you do still care about him, give him the time he needs."

"Time." She sounded distant. "It's been nearly a year. I know you don't want to upset him. I get that. I've promised you I won't. I'll be kind and impersonal and supportive, no matter what he says."

"Stacy ..."

"Just think about it. Please, James. Ask Greg to call me, just so I'll know he's okay."

"Look, when the time is right, I'll tell him you called. That you want to hear from him. That's all I can do."

-----------------------------------------

He was hanging up when House's hoarse bellow echoed down the hallway.

"Willll-SON!"

Wilson sighed again. There was no emergency; that was House's obnoxious Wilson-call. He went down the hall and looked into the bedroom.

House waved the phone at him. "Mom wants to talk to you. Get all the inside dope I'm not supposed to hear."

Taking the phone, Wilson leveled a 'give me a break' look at his friend. "Hello? Mrs. House?"

"James, how are you?" Blythe House's voice was warm.

"I'm fine, you?"

"Oh, much better. I'm so pleased that Greg is working again. We had a nice chat about that."

It wasn't easy keeping his expression bland. While House loved and respected his mother, he had a teenager's need to resist being mothered. Wilson would have loved to eavesdrop on that 'nice chat.'

"I hope this isn't a bad time, but I need to come and see Greg. Tomorrow, if possible. And James, I need to talk to him about something important. Do you think he's up to it?"

Wilson considered. House had, in the last three days, handled a lot of pressure culminating in today's press conference. It was a positive sign that he was healing and gaining some confidence. Too, Blythe would never add to her son's concerns if it wasn't truly important.

"Sure, that's a fine idea," Wilson said, aware of House's curious, analytical gaze.

"Good," she sighed. "Now don't worry. I'll stay at a hotel and won't be a bother." After a moment's pause, she added, "James, please reassure Greg that I'll be coming by myself."

"I will. And you won't stay in a hotel. You can stay next door at my place. Either Linda or I can pick you up at the airport. Just let me know your flight number."

"Oh, I'm visiting my sister Sarah here in Trenton. She's going to drive me."

"Uhh, okay, sounds like a plan." Wilson said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, putting the receiver back on the charger.

"So much for the hookers and gambling this weekend," House drawled. "Hard to party when your mother's chaperoning."

"Yeah, I'd better hurry and cancel that order for booze, drugs and call girls," Wilson replied. "I think it's good. It's been a month since you've seen your mom."

He headed back to the kitchen to get ice cream, puzzling over Blythe House's call.

Thompson had had some key prison personnel on his payroll -- the warden, the heads of the medical staff, the guards on House's wing. They had been the only people who had contact with prisoner number 501437 since the warden allowed House no visitors. It was a tidy system to keep House's abuse secret.

When Thompson had been killed, his organization had fallen apart like a house of cards. As the news of Thompson's death reached his flunkies, they had panicked. The lawyer was suddenly nowhere to be found, and with no instructions the warden had told the guards to carry on as usual until he heard otherwise.

In the course of their investigation the police found the DVDs and the contract itself, and House had immediately been moved to the prison hospital. Thompson had kept thorough records of his payroll, so the state had turned the prison inside out to clean out the corruption in its midst.

House had looked like a refugee from Dachau, too weak from starvation and infection to talk much. His mind hadn't been too clear, either, treating everything as if it were a dream. He'd been reluctant to speak, so Wilson would do most of the talking. At one point he'd mentioned House's mother and was startled when House had flinched.

"Dead," he'd muttered.

"Who's dead?" Wilson had leaned over the bed rail, trying to get House to meet his eyes.

"Mom. Dad said so."

The raspy whisper had sent a chill down Wilson's back. "House, it isn't true. Your mom is alive. I talked to her yesterday."

He got a look from House, the one that said 'you're a hallucination, but such a nice one I think I'll just roll with it for now.' Wilson helped House sip some water, then gently put his hand on House's chest.

"Listen to me. It's Wilson. I'm telling you the truth. Your mom is alive. She had a stroke but she's recuperating just fine. I don't know why your dad would have told you otherwise. When did he say that?"

House closed his eyes, on the edge of sleep. "Don't know. My birthday ... "

"That was ... four months ago." Well before Thompson was killed. Wilson hadn't understood then how John House was able to get permission to visit in prison when no one else could. Later he realized it was because Thompson had expressly allowed it to further torment his puppet.

-------------------------------------------------------

Wilson made an effort to push away those memories. That time in the prison hospital had been a nightmare, when House's life hung by such a delicate thread and Wilson had been forced to rely on the medical skills of the prison doctors and nurses.

John House had visited a couple of times once House was out of prison. He'd been bewildered at seeing his son lost in his own mind, a grown man tended as if he were a child by Wilson and Clarence. Blythe had still been recovering from her stroke. She had been reunited with her only son shortly after his return to sanity, and Wilson had never seen such a mix of fierce joy and anguish on a mother's face before.

John House had stayed in the background for that visit. Greg didn't want his mother to know how cruel her husband had been and had made Wilson swear to keep his mouth shut. Wilson had done so, but the cold hatred in House's eyes as he'd stared at his father made it unequivocally clear that John House was no longer going to have any part in his son's life.

God, what a mess. Wilson shook his head at his thoughts. His own parents were icons of simple domestic life compared to House's.

And then there was the matter of Stacy's call. At some point he'd have to mention it. It seemed to be the pattern of House's life -- when he most needed a quiet, lazy weekend, all hell broke loose.

--------------------------------------

"What's that?" House rasped when Wilson came back carrying two bowls.

"What's it look like? Rocky road ice cream from Primo's."

House gaped at him. "Mac _lied."_

"I hear everybody does." Wilson got a mock glare and returned it. "First, pain meds." He put down the bowls of ice cream and bent to pick up the pill bottle House had thrown at the TV. "I promise to make sure you're awake for the 10 o'clock news, if you want to see it."

"The first act was pretty funny. Can't miss the finale."

Wilson dropped the pill into House's palm and handed him a glass of water from the nightstand. Once the pill was down he said, "Now, let's get you sitting up a little more."

"I'll do it," House growled, but Wilson merely ignored him and helped his friend change position. He draped a towel over House's front for a bib and handed him the spoon with the big soft-grip handle.

For several minutes the two men ate ice cream in silent enjoyment, savoring the gourmet treat.

"One of the best things in the world," House finally sighed. He'd made a respectable inroad into his dessert but had to rest his arm for a moment. "Good scotch, good beer, good music, good cigars, a perfectly grilled steak, sex with a high-class hooker and Primo's Rocky Road."

Wilson raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, I left out a few. A fast bike. Bad porn. A cool car. Tivo and monster trucks."

Swallowing the last mouthful, Wilson gave his own sigh of contentment and leaned back, thinking over House's roll-call of life's pleasures. Now that he was back among the living, House could have the scotch, beer, steak and ice cream. The occasional cigar probably wouldn't hurt him, now that his body was stronger. A cool car? Maybe someday. A motorcycle, probably never again.

Wilson toyed with his spoon and stared at the TV screen. "House?"

House was using both hands to set his now-empty bowl on the nightstand, then covered a burp with a loose fist over his mouth. "Yeah."

"Are you ... lonely?"

Wilson got a blank look in response. He could see it in his peripheral vision, because he was trying not to look at House. "You know ... _lonely."_

"Well, Lefty has always been a reliable friend, but Righty's been such a _bitch _lately --"

"House." It came out as an exasperated groan.

"I'm fine, Wilson." The House mantra.

"You're rich now. Money isn't an issue." Wilson stared carefully at the TV screen. "And, uh, physically ... medically, I mean, everything's okay --"

"Oh, for God's sake," House muttered to the ceiling. "Geez, Wilson, if _you're_ lonely I'm not gonna be offended if you want to get out of here and do something about it. Knock yourself out."

"I'm just saying -- as your friend -- whenever you want to call someone just say so."

"You bring this up on the weekend my mom's coming by?"

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're getting better. Stronger. You're a grown man. If --"

"No."

The finality in his voice made Wilson look at him then.

House's expression was weary and certain. "Between the pain and the pain meds it'd just be a joke. I'm a freak, Wilson. I don't need to pay some hooker to pretend I'm not."

Taking a long, deep breath, Wilson pushed his anger aside. "House. Don't ever say that again. Not to me." The steel in his words had gotten House's attention -- his friend was staring at him warily. "You are not a freak. You deserve every good thing you can wring out of life. And I'm going to make sure only good things come your way."

House was giving him a long, measuring look. Wilson met that gaze with his own steady resolve, determined not to lose this argument. They stared at each other for several seconds. It was House who had to look away first.

"Right now I can't think that far ahead," House admitted quietly. "I'm stuck on the one-day-at-a-time thing." He slid a sly look over to Wilson. "Unless you think Cuddy'd be willing to give me a pity fuck."

Wilson shook his head and feigned resigned disgust, knowing House was being crass in an attempt to change the subject. "Just ... give me a pain rating now."

Leaning back on his nest of pillows, House turned his gaze to the TV. "Maybe a five. Four and a half. Are you really going to let Mom stay at your place? Better hide your porn."

"All my porn has somehow migrated to this side of the duplex," Wilson pointed out. "Why's she coming, anyway?" The best defense was a good offense where House was concerned. Wilson wanted to appear clueless.

"She didn't tell you?"

"Nope." Wilson met House's probing with bland guilelessness. "But like I said, I think it's a good idea. She's making a remarkable recovery from the stroke. Getting out on her own now and then is great."

"On her own? He's not coming?" Using his hands, House drew up his right leg to rub his shin. He didn't need the ortho boot when he was in bed, and it was a relief to be without the cumbersome thing. The coldly impersonal 'he' in his question referred to his father.

"No. She said she's visiting her sister in Trenton. The sister is going to drive her down tomorrow to see you."

"Huh." He seemed to mull that over, but Wilson could see the pain meds were beginning to kick in, dulling his eyes and slowing his movements.

"You sure you want me to wake you up for the late news? You know they're probably gonna rehash the whole thing." Wilson figured it would all get replayed -- Cameron's murder, House's trial and prison sentence, photos of Robert Thompson and the parking lot where he was killed, artists' courtroom sketches of the trials that followed, House's testimony -- what little the press knew of it, anyway. The press wouldn't pass up a chance to trot out the whole sordid, miserable story again. Seeing all that would be painfully unpleasant for House. At the very least it would unsettle him for a time.

House's eyelids were getting heavy. "I need to know," he mumbled. "I need to know what they say. Wake me up, Wilson. Promise."

Wilson got up and settled the sheet around his friend, moving the pillows to make him more comfortable. "I promise, House," he whispered.


	22. Chapter 20

Wilson turned on the bedside intercom before going over to his own townhouse. If House needed him or cried out in his sleep, Wilson would hear it.

He changed the sheets on his bed, hung out guest towels and tidied up the place for Blythe's stay. He was organized by nature and didn't spend a lot of time at his side of the duplex so the cleaning didn't take long. After grabbing some clothes and a few toiletries he went back to House's side.

He and Linda managed to keep the place fairly orderly, despite House's talent as a one-man wrecking crew. A quick dust mop over the floor, a light dusting, and picking up the remotes and medical journals laying about did wonders.

Wilson looked around. The place didn't reflect House's personality like his old apartment had. Decorating was very low on the list of priorities. The furniture was comfortable but nothing special. Wilson had bought pieces he thought might be easy on his friend's battered body -- overstuffed club chairs, a soft leather sofa. Even the coffee table was rimmed with padded leather, with an inset wooden tray.

And everything was easy to clean. Wilson hadn't overlooked that feature.

When House had been sentenced to life in prison the state had allowed his parents to claim anything considered an heirloom or personal -- photo albums, yearbooks, House's various degrees and awards and trophies, an antique pocketwatch that had belonged to a grandfather. Everything else had been confiscated to be sold for the victim compensation fund. The baby grand, the collection of texts and antique medical instruments, his furniture and clothes and art pieces, his car and bike.

Wilson had been taken by surprise, but he lost no time getting to the hospital and pillaging House's office, determined to save everything he could. He substituted several things from his own office for the police to take, so House's wouldn't look too bare and make them suspicious. He had brought all of it to his own home, reminders of a friend he'd never see again. The large tennis ball and the magic 8-ball he'd kept on his desk at work. Even now, Wilson wasn't sure what had prompted him to salvage House's things. At that time the two men hadn't even been friends. It was just the idea, somehow, that the police would take everything -- would wipe out any sign that House had even existed -- that Wilson couldn't stand.

Now everything was back where it should be in the diagnostics office -- including House. Standing in the middle of the living room, Wilson nodded to himself. Right now this townhouse was just a place for House to sleep in. To exist in. Thompson had been quite successful in taking everything away from Greg House, including his identity and any hope for a future. As soon as House was on a more even keel with work and the publicity, Wilson would help him make this place his home. It would help re-establish House's idea of who he was, and that he was in charge of his own life.

--------------------------------------

"House?" Wilson kept his voice soft. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. It's almost time for the news."

House was on his side opposite the bruised hip, his face buried in the pillows. A handful of the sheet was clutched in his fingers.

Wilson winced at the sight of the dark bruise that covered the back of his hand. Rajghatta really hadn't had much of a choice where she administered the Ativan, but undiluted, the drug would make the sensitive veins in the hand burn.

On the plus side, House had the fentanyl patch and assorted other pain meds to keep him comfortable.

Rubbing House's shoulder gently, Wilson tried again. "C'mon, little rosebud. Do you want to watch the news or not?"

House lifted a hand to swat at him ineffectually, muttering into his pillow.

"I'm all for letting you snooze. I don't think you should watch it anyway. What's the point? Go ahead and sleep."

With a grunted obscenity House lifted his head from the pillow, blinking owlishly. "Timezit?" he slurred.

"Nine forty-five. Thought you'd want a bathroom break."

"Huh. Good thinking." Moving slowly, House shifted around and pushed the covers off his legs.

Wilson had perfected his technique for helping him up, affecting just the right casual, you're-such-a-pain-in-the-ass air to keep House from feeling weak and coddled. Once House was perched on the edge of the bed Wilson said, "Chair or crutches?"

House flexed his legs experimentally, then arched his back and rolled his shoulders. "Crutches," he decided.

While House was in the bathroom, Wilson rearranged the bedclothes and nested the pillows against the headboard. After a moment's thought he opened the top drawer of the nightstand and took out Mr. Vicodin, setting the raggedy stuffed toy inconspicuously near the pillows.

House had had a rough day, he reasoned, and the next 15 minutes or so wouldn't be any easier.

The bathroom door opened and House crutched slowly back to the bed. Wilson helped him sit back against the pillows and set the crutches nearby. He studied his friend as he helped him settle in. House was still much too thin, but he _was_ looking better. His hair was still wild from his nap, and the numerous scars on his rumpled face were highlighted by the pallor of his complexion. But the furrowed brow, the deep-set eyes, the belligerent set of his lower lip -- all that was still House.

"What are you staring at?"

Wilson noticed House was giving him the fish-eye and shrugged. "You've got more gray in your hair, but your beard is still mostly dark. That's weird."

House watched him go to the TV and turn it on. "Guess you're onto me. I've got a stash of 'Just For Men' under the sink." Wilson himself had acquired a few gray hairs at his temples. House didn't want to ponder if they were because of him.

The theme song of the local news started, and Wilson sat in the recliner, trying to hide his anxiety. Sure enough, House was the feature story, a long special segment of the type reserved for presidential funerals or national calamities.

The piece kicked off with the header "Tortured doctor returns to practice" and showed a long shot of the hospital's front facing. Wilson couldn't help wincing at the title.

Everything was rehashed, just as he'd dreaded. A short bio on House, Cameron's murder, the trial and life sentence. Still shots of PPTH, House, Cameron, the exteriors of the courthouse and prison -- even a brief glimpse of the cell in solitary that had been House's private hell for so long.

Then came the photo of Thompson to accompany that twist in the story. Brief interviews with the lawyers reminiscing about the case, a prison doctor guardedly reporting that Greg House's condition had been 'grave.' No details of House's ordeal were given, but the reporter spoke of isolation, horrendous physical abuse, no medical care and meals that were few and far between. Thompson's control of the key prison personnel was explained, along with photos of the men who were now serving long prison terms themselves.

That trial was summed up briefly, followed by a recap of House's exoneration by the state.

Jacki Sissom, one of the reporters who had accosted House in the parking lot that morning, was back standing in front of PPTH again and looking seriously into the camera. "And when he was once again a free man, Gregory House apparently vanished. Some say he left the country to recover. Others claim he was admitted under a false name to a private facility. All we know for sure is that he disappeared from public view ..." She gave a pregnant pause. "Until today."

The camera cut away to show the news conference at the hospital with Cuddy at the podium. Sissom's voice-over announced that House was back at his former job. The entire question-and-answer session with House was aired.

Then Sissom was again looking earnestly into the camera. "We take for granted that physicians save lives, using their knowledge and skill to help others. But for some, saving lives takes a more personal toll. Dr. Gregory House traded his life in exchange for the safety of his family and friends. With strength and courage he held on, year after year silently enduring the cruel gantlet Robert Thompson had devised for him. It was a miracle that set Gregory House free, and today he begins to reclaim his life and look toward the future. There is a lesson there for all of us. Mark, Jenna, back to you."

Wilson turned down the sound.

Throughout the broadcast House had stared at the screen, slowly shrinking back into the pillows. One hand had crept over to clutch Mr. Vicodin in a death grip.

"House?"

The older man started, glancing over at Wilson with hollow eyes.

"It's still crap," House declared, his roughened voice reduced to a croak. "Sanitized, wrapped up in a pretty package for Joe and Jane Sixpack. Like it's over and done with."

Wilson nodded, understanding. It would never be 'done with' for House. He was the one who had to live the rest of his life with the consequences. "I know, House."

Looking down, House absently smoothed the coverlet with his free hand. "Wilson ... I know Thompson's dead." He cleared his throat lightly. "But if we're wrong ... if he isn't, he won't let me go. It'll all start again."

_What the hell? _Wilson stared at his friend.

Seeing his expression, House scowled. "I'm not crazy. At least not any more. I just want you to understand. If --" He looked down again at the blanket. "If he comes back, I won't ... I can't take any more." House was picking absently at the seam of the blanket. "I'll pay one of the mob guys to kill me. Make it look like an accident. A break and enter gone wrong or a mugging. And I want you to be okay with it."

Wilson realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap. "What --" He got up and sat on the bed. "Thompson is _dead_. Really, truly dead. He won't come back, House. I swear it. All of his people are locked up. It's _over_."

House nodded absently. "Yeah."

Wilson touched his arm. "House, think of it like this. Before, no one would have believed you if you'd tried to get help. You had no one to turn to. Now that's changed. The police, the FBI, they've seen that contract. They know what happened. They'd believe you in a heartbeat if you asked for help. Thompson would have no more leverage over you."

This time House looked at him, a glimmer of realization in his eyes. "Maybe," he said softly. He was afraid to hope too much, but he seemed to be mulling over Wilson's reasoning.

Wilson helped him lie down, then turned off the TV and the lights and sat with him until he fell asleep.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The rattle of pills woke him. It was barely dawn, and in the soft glow of the nightlight he could vaguely see House swallowing a Vicodin. Blinking, Wilson realized he was laying beside House on the bed, then remembered the nightmare around 1 a.m. that had brought him to House's side.

House had flung the covers off the bed, trying to scramble away from whatever his sleeping brain had conjured up until he'd suddenly thrashed upright with a gutteral yell, waking himself up. Wilson had been right there, talking softly to him, waiting for a sign that House would tolerate being touched. Finally House had reached out to him, gripping his shirt in a fist and forcing himself to take deep breaths to calm himself as Wilson murmured quiet, comforting nonsense.

They had fallen asleep like that. The nightmares happened often enough that neither man felt the need to comment on it.

Rubbing his eyes, Wilson shifted that hand to stifle a yawn. "House? Where does it hurt?"

"My legs," House mumbled. "My ass where I fell."

Wilson hauled himself up and stretched, then went to the nightstand and grabbed some analgesic cream. He turned on the lamp. "Lay on your belly, let me see that bruise."

"Bad enough Mac stares at my ass, now you're --"

"House. Shut up and turn over." Wilson helped him shift position then pulled down the loose waistbands of House's pajamas and boxers just enough to get a look at the bruise. He couldn't help the hiss that escaped him when he saw it.

"Yeah. That's how it feels, too," House groaned.

"Okay, you ready? I'll put some of this on it."

House gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Wilson was gentle, but the bruise was deep and painful. And it made House's skin crawl to be touched there, bruise or no bruise.

Wilson felt the tension building in House's muscles as he applied cream to the area. He knew well enough why House was tense. "Talk to me, House. Just another minute here and I'll start helping you with your legs."

"Think it's coincidence ... they call that stuff ... Ben Gay?" House managed to grate out.

Wilson snorted a laugh. "Smells like the Broncos' locker room, I'd say. Wonder why it has to stink so bad? Almost done ... okay. That's it." He pulled up House's clothes and tossed the tube into the drawer. "Let's get your legs feeling better."

It took nearly an hour, and after the massage and the Vicodin House felt comfortable enough to go back to sleep. Wilson took the opportunity to do the same.


	23. Chapter 21

It was 9 a.m. by the time the sound of House shuffling around in the bedroom reached Wilson. He was in the kitchen, mixing the dry ingredients for his famous macadamia-nut pancakes. Eventually the shuffling steps and chink of crutches came to a stop at the kitchen doorway. Wilson looked over his shoulder as House leaned against the door jamb, looking like something unsavory the cat had dragged in.

"You're quite a sight first thing in the morning."

"It's the quality of the light. Gives me a radiant glow," House growled back.

Wilson hid his grin. "Take a load off. Where's the boot?" He noticed House didn't move from the doorway. He didn't usually go into the kitchen unless he had to.

The day after moving into the townhouse, when House was still silently trapped in his own mind, Clarence had been watching House in the living room while Wilson cooked. Wilson had been at the sink skinning a chicken, and had flipped the switch on the garbage disposal -- and then heard House's wordless howl and the bang of furniture falling over.

Wilson had swiftly shut off the machine and run through the living room to the foyer to see Clarence gently pulling a frantic House away from the door. It had taken long, long hours and a strong sedative to calm him down that night.

The next day Wilson had had the garbage disposal removed, the switch taken off and the wall patched where it had been. He'd shown it to House, to make sure he knew -- as well as he could know anything -- that the danger was gone.

Wilson tried not to think about what had happened to cause such fear, and yet it was obvious. The only part of an adult person that could fit into a garbage disposal were the hands. Since House still had both of his, and all his fingers, the sadistic bastards had only used the device as a threat.

Yet it was too easy to close his eyes and picture it as if he'd been in House's place -- the growling, bucking machine beneath the hole, men holding him helpless, forcing his hand down -- the fear was overwhelming, the anticipation of agony and loss seemed so real it could buckle his knees.

Wilson had ended up having the disposal removed from his side of the duplex, too.

House still tended to avoid the kitchen. When he did go in he never got near the sink. Wilson didn't blame him in the least. Turning on the griddle, Wilson said, "You want me to help you shave? Your mom would probably rather not see you looking like the homeless guy who lives behind the Save-Mart."

"Flatterer." House edged one step into the kitchen. "Same answer I gave you when you wanted me to shave for work."

Wilson sighed. It was true, though. The dark stubble that shadowed House's face also helped obscure the scars it covered. "Finally you have the perfect excuse. Juice is on the table." As he mixed the pancake batter he watched House take another step, close enough to reach one of the stools at the center work island. He dragged the stool over to the doorway and eased himself down on it, sitting on the undamaged hip. His hands weren't dexterous enough to manage the crutches and carry the mug of juice, so on his way to the fridge for butter Wilson carried the mug over to House and set it on the counter by his elbow.

House's gaze moved from the griddle to the bowl of batter. "Are you making ..." The lust in his voice was unmistakable.

"Yep. Macadamia-nut pancakes."

House frowned. "Is that a bribe? You're going to make me do PT today?"

"If there's time after you visit with your mom. What time is she coming?"

"Around 11."

"Good. Time to eat, wash up and get dressed."

--------------------------------------------------------

It was 11:05 by the time he got House looking almost presentable.

"I'm not going on a date, Wilson." House glared at him. "It's just my mom."

Instead of the old sweats House had opted for, Wilson had insisted he put on nice jeans and a crisply ironed shirt. His left foot was laced into a clean Nike tennis shoe, and the ortho boot protected his right foot. It had taken a sneak attack on Wilson's part to get a brush through his hair.

"And she wants to see you looking good," Wilson replied sternly. "Stop whining or I'll make you put on a tie."

They scowled at each other a moment before the honk of a car horn from out front broke the impasse.

When Wilson went outside he saw the car parked in the driveway and Sarah Collier, Blythe's sister, was opening the trunk. He went to the passenger door and opened it for Blythe, who smiled up at him.

"James! It's so good to see you again. How's Greg today?"

Wilson returned her smile. "Pretty good. He'll be glad to see you."

Blythe turned and called out, "Sarah? This is Dr. James Wilson, Greg's friend."

The other woman came around to the side of the car and took Wilson's hand. "Pleasure to meet you," Sarah said. She had Blythe's warm smile but a narrower face, with genteely silvered hair. "I've heard so much about you, and how you take such good care of Greg. He's lucky to have you for a friend and a doctor."

Wilson murmured modest things and insisted on taking Blythe's bag from the trunk. He took it into his own townhouse and set it on the dresser, ready to open, then went back outside.

Sarah had her sister's walker unfolded. "Blythe ... " she prompted.

Still seated in the car, House's mother nodded. "James, would you ask Greg if Sarah could come in and say hello?"

"Only for a minute," Sarah spoke up. "I haven't seen Greg for eight years. I've promised Blythe I won't cry."

Wilson shrugged. "I'll ask. But ..."

Sarah nodded. "Blythe's told me. He's had a terrible time. I'll understand if he says no."

Wilson looked at Blythe.

"I'll just sit here a moment while you check. Thank you, James."

Inside, Wilson found House hovering in the living room. "Your mom wants to know if Sarah can come in and say hi to you."

House grimaced and looked away. "Hugging and crying and all that crap ..."

"She's promised your mom she won't."

With the tip of one crutch House poked at the floor. "Wilson ... she's old. Am I gonna scare her?"

"She's your aunt. She misses you. If she needs to tear up a little, ignore it. You aren't going to scare her, House."

-----------------

Blythe seemed very steady on her feet, barely needing the walker. Wilson accompanied them into the townhouse, ready to help her if she needed it.

Once in the foyer, Blythe looked eagerly toward the living room doorway. Her face lit up like the sun at the sight of her boy standing there. "Greg, dear!" she called out happily. "Look at us." She grinned. "Between the two of us we could probably outfit a hardware store."

A grudging smile played across House's lips. "Wanna race? Fifty bucks says I can beat you to the couch."

The look that passed between mother and son was one of amusement and perfect understanding.

House turned his gaze to the other woman and tried to brace himself. "Hi, Aunt Sarah."

Sarah beamed at him and walked over, reaching up to put her hands on his shoulders. "Oh, Greg, I've missed you," she told him with a smile. "You and Darren were always my two favorite nephews. But don't tell the others."

House saw how she was holding herself back. With an inward sigh he lifted his chin, signaling the go-ahead. Sarah immediately enveloped him in a hug.

"Eight years," she clucked, her face against his shoulder. "I wish it hadn't been so long."

With the crutches he couldn't easily hug her back, but he dropped a quick kiss on her silver hair. "I know, Aunt Sarah. Me too."

After a few moments she pulled away, her hands resting lightly on his arms. Few of the normal platitudes were appropriate for House. She couldn't tell him he looked good, or that she was glad he was well. Sarah just looked up at him, smiling, and said, "I'm glad you're getting better. Your mother said you're back at work now."

House studied the floor. "Yeah. We'll see how that goes."

She patted his arm. "You're a wonderful doctor, Greg. Blythe is always bragging about you, and well she should. Remember now, I love you. Stay strong." Sarah turned away and went back to the door. "Blythe, I'll be back around this time tomorrow to pick you up. Have a good visit."

-----------------------------------------------

Wilson showed Blythe into the living room and helped her and House get settled on the sofa, bringing drinks and snacks so neither would have to get up for them.

He visited briefly with her, then explained he'd brought paperwork home from the office that needed seeing to, and that he'd be in the spare bedroom down the hall if she needed anything. Wilson figured that arrangement would allow them privacy to talk, but he'd hear a yell if they needed him.

Blythe smiled after Wilson's retreating back, then turned the smile to her son. "Thank you for saying hi to your aunt. I know it wasn't easy. Now, I want _my_ hug and kiss."

"Aw, Mom ... " but he caved, of course, and held her close.

"You aren't as thin as you were," she said, hugging him tight. "It's good to see you stronger. James is doing a fine job of taking care of you. I knew he would."

"He's a royal pain in the ... neck," House muttered.

"Which is exactly what you need." With a final squeeze she pulled back, getting a good look at him.

House fidgeted under her keen appraisal. "Uh ... Sarah looks good."

"Um hm. She and your Uncle Harry bought a place in Florida for the winters. It's a lovely condo not far from Tampa." Blythe reached up and stroked his cheek. "Your life has been so difficult," she sighed. "Even before all this happened."

House glanced away with a shrug. "Life's tough for everyone."

She tapped his knee to make him meet her gaze. "Greg ... it's all right. It isn't a secret any more."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

_Three weeks earlier_

The young woman from the assisted living agency was a good cook. She took the roast out of the oven and announced, "Perfectly done, Mrs. House."

"Thank you, Vicki," Blythe told her. Blythe had fixed the vegetables and the salad while Vicki had prepared the roast and set the table. "Keep an eye on the rolls. I'll go tell John it's time for dinner."

She still used the wheelchair at the end of the day, when she grew tired. John had been gone most of the afternoon, and Blythe and Vicki had done some light housecleaning and a load of laundry. It was good to feel useful again, Blythe thought, and it was only a matter of time before she was back on her feet again without need for wheelchairs or walkers.

Wheeling herself through the front room, she stopped at the closed doors of the den and tapped lightly on them. "John?" She opened the door and went in.

John House was at his desk, seated sideways to it. The revolver he'd always kept locked in the gun cabinet was held limply in his right hand. A few bullets were scattered atop the desk.

"Did you hear me, dear? Dinner is ready."

He was staring blankly at the floor.

Blythe felt her palms go clammy. It wasn't unusual for him to take out the gun and clean it once in a while, but it was never loaded. She hadn't even known he had bullets for it. "John?"

He looked at her then, as if from a great distance.

Her throat tightened. "Is something the matter? What is it?"

John House swallowed and blinked at her. _We've gotten old, _Blythe thought randomly. His hair was white and thinning, the skin of his face gray and loose. Most days when Blythe looked at her husband, in her mind's eye she could still see the dashing lieutenant she'd fallen in love with, straight and tall in his Marine uniform with purpose in his eyes and confidence in his stride. Today, though, her husband looked stricken and frail.

"I ... was at the hall today." He spoke softly, looking at the gun in his hand.

Blythe moved a little nearer to him. He visited the VFW a few times a week to see his buddies. That was nothing new. "Did you have a nice time? You were going to ask Hank to come over and help set up those shelves in the basement." She tried to draw him back into the here and now, hoping mundanities would fill that frightening emptiness in his eyes.

"New member was there. Served over in 'Nam. Ollie introduced us. Said, 'John House, this's Rudy Shepherd.'"

Blythe watched him idly rub his thumb over the revolver's safety.

"Shepherd came up to me, held out his hand. Said, 'John House? I know who you are. It's an honor to meet you. Your son is one of the bravest men I've ever heard tell of.'" Tears rushed to her eyes, but John wasn't looking at her. "Shepherd had been a POW for nearly a year. Gooks didn't treat him any too good, believe me. He said to me, 'You must be proud. You taught your boy well.'"

The gun fell to the floor from his nerveless fingers. Blythe flinched, expecting it to go off.

John covered his face with his hands. When he did, Blythe saw the paper and pen on the desk at his elbow. A chill came over her as she realized how close a thing it had been. She went to him and put her arms around her husband. "John, honey, I know. I'm proud of him too --"

"I wasn't." With a deep breath he dropped his hands from his face and looked at her, eyes bleak. "I was ashamed, Blythe. Everyone thought my son was a murderer. A woman killer. And he didn't even deny it!"

She pulled away, as shocked as if he'd slapped her.

"I couldn't face my friends," he went on, shaking his head. "Couldn't look any of'em in the eye. Couldn't stand anyone knowing I was his father. What he did was a disgrace to me. A dishonor to both of us."

"You never ..." Blythe tried to collect her thoughts. "I knew you were upset. Angry, even. But I told you all along he didn't do it. Greg could never do something so awful."

John House hung his head wearily. "He never denied it, back then."

"He couldn't! We'd have all been killed, you know that!"

"I know it now. Not back then." He shrugged. "You wanted to visit him in that stinking prison, but they kept telling you he was a troublemaker, not allowed to see anyone until he straightened up. Just like always, Blythe. Pigheaded and contrary."

Tears burned down her cheeks. "John, for Lord's sake, we know the whys of it now. What's making you talk like this?"

"The things Shepherd said ... they're true." He shook his head. "My daddy was a soldier. Raised me to be one. I learned fast, too. Disobeyed him once, accidently caused my sister to get hurt. He took his belt to me and made me sleep outside that night. Only had to do it once -- believe me, I learned real quick. When I sassed him made me dump ice into a cold bath and get in. Once was all it took for me. Greg ... Greg wouldn't learn. Thought he was better and smarter than his old man, even as a kid."

In a low voice, Blythe said, "John House. You did _not_ do those things to our child." Her tone said clearly that he had better agree.

John seemed lost in his private misery, unaware of her reaction. "When you weren't home. You never understood discipline, hon. Would've raised all kinds of stink. I was trying to set our boy straight. Teach him. Keep him from screwing up his life. It only made him hate me." Absently he reached down and picked up the gun from the floor, setting it on the desk. "Then he went to prison for murder, and I ... I hated _him_. Saw everything I'd ever hoped for him go up in smoke because his temper and his impulsiveness and selfishness led him to kill a helpless woman. No son of mine would do that. No sir. No son of mine."

Blythe slowly moved her wheelchair away from him. He didn't seem to notice.

"Then you had the stroke. Doctor said you fell and hit your head, causing a bleed in your brain. They didn't think you were going to live, Blythe. And I thought, the woman I love is gonna die in disgrace because everyone knows what our son did. I ... I couldn't stand that. I couldn't --" He swallowed again. "The next day I called the damn prison, explained your condition and that I had to see Greg. They let me right in, no problem."

Tears finally began to shine in his eyes, but he looked blank, almost dazed. "They had him all chained up, like the criminal everyone thought he was. He looked awful, and it made me furious -- what he'd done, everything he'd thrown away. It was his birthday, Blythe. And I told him he'd killed you. The shame he'd brought down on us was too much for you. And I hit him. Right across the face. And I left." His face was wet now, silent tears flowing. "Shepherd said, 'House, your son is a hero. You raised him right.'"

John House put his arms on the desk and buried his face in them, shoulders shaking.

At first she was too shocked to speak or move. Then she wheeled her chair closer. Blythe carefully picked up the gun and made sure the safety was on, then tucked it between her leg and the side of the wheelchair. Once it was out of her husband's reach, she reached out and touched his shoulder. She couldn't remember if she'd ever seen him cry before. "John ... it's been so hard on all of us. I've been ill and that's left too much of a burden on you, what with caring for me and coping with the terrible things that happened to Greg. We're going to get you some help, dear."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking up into her son's questioning eyes, she steeled herself against tears. "Your father told me what he'd done to you when you were little. And he told me that he visited you in prison. That he hit you and made you think I was dead." Her son's eyes were growing wider, and his mouth fell open in shock. She patted his knee. "Greg, your father is ... well, in my day they called it a nervous breakdown. I phoned his friend Hank Vogelsang to take him to the VA." Blythe sighed softly, sadness shadowing her eyes. "I stayed with him a couple of days until he got settled in."

Her son was still staring at her with stunned disbelief. "Then you left? Have you left him?"

Blythe House fiddled with the latch on her purse. "In his room at the VA, I tried to get him to talk some more. He pretended not to know what he'd said. He wouldn't acknowledge he'd had a breakdown, even though he couldn't meet my eyes and his hands shook just like yours. Finally I told him I had to go stay with my sister for a little while, and that if he wanted me to come back, he had to get counseling."

House slumped against the sofa cushions as if his muscles had given way. "Dad isn't gonna talk to a shrink." He felt dazed. "Mom ... did he ever hit you?"

She shook her head. "No, dear. He never raised a hand to me in all the years we've been married. I never really knew he had a side to him like that. Oh, he shouted and blustered and made a lot of noise, but I never ..." A tear suddenly tracked down her cheek. "Greg, I'm so sorry." Swiping at the tear, she cleared her throat. "I don't know if I was blind or just stupid. But I wish I'd known. You never said anything."

He shrugged one shoulder, staring at his knees. "Are you going to go back home?"

"I'm staying in touch with Hank. He said he'd let me know when your father starts going to counseling."

House dragged his gaze up to meet her eyes. "What if he doesn't?"

Although she was sad, she looked no less determined. "Then I suppose we'll both be very lonely."


	24. Chapter 22

"Now don't be upset," she told him calmly, taking his ruined hands and making him meet her gaze. "Everything will work out as it should."

House stared mutely at his mother, seeing the frailty of age overlaying her familiar features. The story she'd just told him was impossible to imagine -- his father had to be the last person on Earth who'd take his own life. He certainly would never get that upset over anything to do with his son.

But his mother had never lied to him ... discounting Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy.

"Mom." He cleared his throat. "You love dad. And you need him. You can't stay with your sister forever, and you can't live alone. Don't throw out 50 years of marriage because of me."

"Don't fret about this, Greg." Blythe smiled and patted his hand lightly. "Your father has problems, and he needs to deal with them. We both know he'll never do that unless someone holds his feet over the fire."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson's paperwork consisted of a few emails on his laptop, after which he played solitaire for a while as House and his mother talked. He was sorely tempted to eavesdrop but berated himself for such unworthy thoughts -- even though he knew were their positions reversed, House would have no compunctions about listening in.

The beep of his cell phone was a welcome distraction. "Hello?"

"James? It's Lisa."

He relaxed at the sound of her voice, relieved that it wasn't Stacy again. "Hi Lisa. Something up?"

"Nothing urgent." Cuddy's tone was wry. "After yesterday's debacle I thought I'd better come in to work and see how everything's going." She sighed. "Unsurprisingly, things are much quieter when House isn't here."

Wilson laughed. "No reporters?"

"I think the injunction scared them off. But you wouldn't believe the calls I've been getting. The cat's out of the bag for sure. I just finished talking to a producer for "60 Minutes." They want to interview House, and the hospital is the only place anyone knows to find him. Before them it was Newsweek, Time magazine, Oprah's people ..."

Wilson practically choked.

"--Nightline, all the major networks. It's just crazy."

"I'm trying to picture House talking to Oprah," Wilson chuckled.

"Yeah. He's so much more a Jerry Springer kind of guy. Well, just let him know, will you? Who knows, maybe he'll _want _to talk to Oprah or somebody. It's his choice."

Wilson filled her in on House's reaction to the news coverage, then he told her about Stacy's and Blythe's phone calls. "Right now he's talking with his mom in the other room. His dad didn't come."

Lisa sounded intrigued. "Wonder what's going on? Well, it's for the best if he's not around his father. I'm sure his mom is just concerned that he's coming out of hiding to go back to work. Stay on top of it, James. You're the best House-wrangler in the world."

"And woefully underpaid for it," Wilson said to make her laugh. He heard his name called out from the living room. "Lisa, gotta go. I'm being summoned. Bye."

----------------------------------------------------

When he walked into the living room he found Blythe getting to her feet, barely leaning on the walker. She smiled at him.

"James, if you don't mind I'd like to go lie down for a bit."

Trying to hide his curiosity, Wilson nodded. "Sure. I can come get you for dinner ...?" He went to her, casting an apprehensive look at House, who was slouched on the sofa deep in thought.

"That would be wonderful, thank you."

He walked with her to his side of the duplex and helped her get settled.

"James, thank you for being so good to Greg." She sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "If it weren't for you, he never could have come so far."

Wilson pulled the shades on the windows to dim the light in the room. "He's a strong guy. I can tend to him, but getting better ... he's doing that on his own." Turning back to her, he said, "Is there anything you need? I can bring you some water --"

His hovering made her smile. "Oh, I'm just fine. I'll lie down for a while then I'll be good as new."

---------------------------------------------------------

"Your mom's settled in for a nap," Wilson called as he came back in. House was still on the couch, leaning forward, holding one crutch and lightly bouncing its rubber tip on the floor. Wilson looked down at him. "Everything okay?"

House continued to stare unseeingly at the far wall, bouncing his crutch. "Dad's at the VA hospital in Durham."

"What? Why, what happened?" Wilson sat next to him, worried. "Was it a stroke? His heart?"

House flicked a glance at him, then went back to examining the far wall. "Mom found him with a loaded gun and the beginnings of a suicide note."

"What?! Did he --"

"No. He's on a psych ward under suicide watch."

Shaking his head, Wilson waved a hand in the air, gesturing his shock. "Why in the world would he even consider something like that?"

House dropped his gaze, looking at the floor. "No idea." His lips thinned, and he took a sharp breath. "Guess we oughtta do that PT now."

Wilson was silent a long moment, processing what he'd been told and weighing the sudden change of subject. "No. No PT today," he finally said.

"You're the one always telling me I need to --"

"--Shut up, House." At the glare House shot him, Wilson held up his hands, silencing further protest. "The weather isn't going to clear until tonight. You're pale, your leg hurts, you've got a bruise 6 inches across on your hip, and you're sitting hunched over because you're in too much pain to straighten up. Give me a rating."

House rested his forehead against the crutch grip and sighed.

"Give me a number, House."

"Five," House grunted. Beside him, Wilson made a 'hmm' sound. "Okay, six," House muttered.

With a nod to himself, Wilson got to his feet and went to House's bedroom, coming back with a pill in his hand. "Take this and lay down for a while."

House spared a glance at the pill Wilson offered him. "I told you, those things make me hazy."

"Only for an hour or two. Your mom's going to be resting until dinner. Take this and do the same."

Reluctantly, House palmed the tablet and dry swallowed it.

Wilson took the crutch he was playing with and set it against the wall by its mate. "I'll bring pillows and a blanket and you can bunk here while I start dinner."

---------------------------------------------------------------

Blythe House was suitably impressed with the chicken kiev, haricots verts, parsleyed potatoes and perfectly browned rolls Wilson had laid out on the table.

Her praise embarrassed him and more than made up for her son's preoccupied silence. She was an easy person to talk to, and they began the meal with pleasant conversation. Wilson avoided mentioning her husband, and neither of them pressed House to join in.

Midway through the meal, into a comfortable lull in the conversation, House put down his fork. "I told Wilson about Dad." He didn't look up from his plate. "Except for the ... early stuff."

His mother didn't seem taken aback by the abrupt change of topic. If anything, her smile at her son was one of understanding. "Of course."

"This must be very difficult for you," Wilson ventured. He truly did feel empathy for her -- for everything that had happened to her son, her own illness and recovery, and now her husband of half a century was suffering emotionally. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it."

Blythe shook her head. "I've been married to Greg's father a long time. If I didn't think he'd be all right, I wouldn't be 200 miles away from him here."

"Have you spoken with his doctor?"

"Oh, yes. I have. John hasn't."

House made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort.

Blythe gave him a look. "He hasn't yet, but he will. He's stubborn, but not as stubborn as I am."

Wilson didn't want to pry, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Doesn't he realize how serious this is?"

Her smile at him was rueful. "He won't admit to it. If John doesn't have a solution to a problem, he usually ignores it and hopes it'll go away."

"Sounds familiar," Wilson mused, ignoring House's flinty glare.

Blythe managed to keep a straight face. "It won't be long. John will face his troubles and get it all sorted out. I suppose I should have known it would take a stranger to open his eyes."

Wilson frowned slightly. "What stranger?"

"Not relevant," House interjected.

As if she hadn't heard, Blythe took a sip of her iced tea and said, "John had met someone earlier that day. He'd gone to the VFW and was introduced to a new member, a man who'd just moved into the area. He'd served in Vietnam, spent time as a prisoner of war."

"Mom, none of this matters --"

"Of course it matters," she huffed. "Greg, honestly." She turned back to Wilson and continued. "When John was introduced to him, he recognized the name. He knew about what had happened to Greg. He told John that Greg was a hero, that we should be proud of what he'd done to protect us."

"The guy's an idiot," House muttered, stabbing his fork at a piece of chicken. He missed his aim and the bite of meat splashed into Wilson's tea glass.

Wilson leveled a suspicious look at House, who looked back with all the innocence he could muster.

Blythe merely sighed. "You'd think you were still eleven, Greg."

"Hey, I didn't _try _to do that."

Wilson got up and got himself a clean glass, pouring more tea. "So, was it something this guy said that did it?"

"I think so. John was --"

House pushed his plate away. "Let me sum this up, Mom. Dad hated my guts for murdering a helpless woman, and couldn't have been happier to have me locked up in prison for the rest of my life to pay for it." He stared at the table, his mouth twisted in a tight line. "When the truth came out, well, the truth didn't jibe with his opinion of me. I don't know what he thought, but he got one thing right. I'm just some jerk who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That doesn't make me a hero."

"You sacrificed yourself for the people you cared about. What does that make you?" Wilson countered.

House looked up, staring at him hard. After a moment he turned his gaze to his mother, saw the love in her eyes as she waited for his answer. The words he wanted to say died before reaching his lips. Here were the two people he cared about most in the world, and they were here, within arm's reach, alive and well because he had done what he'd done. House couldn't say his sacrifices made him a fool or a victim or even an innocent bystander. Such words would lessen what these two people meant to him.

Wilson saw the muscles in his jaw tighten, then House dropped his gaze back to the table. "It makes me stubborn," he answered quietly. Most people would have done as he had, if they had been unlucky enough to come to Robert Thompson's attention. It didn't make him special, only spectacularly unfortunate. "I'm not a hero," he insisted.

Blythe reached out and put her hand over his. "And your father is stubborn, too. Only now, he's beginning to see the bigger picture. Don't worry, Greg. We'll be fine. He'll deal with all those things he's been pushing away and come to terms with it."

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After the meal came coffee and conversation, and by 9:30 Blythe pleaded sleepiness brought about by the excellent food and the fine company. Wilson escorted her to his townhouse and showed her the intercom, turning it on. "If you need anything, just call out and I'll hear you next door. Turn it off once you're in bed, but don't hesitate to use it if you want something."

"Thank you, James. I had a wonderful evening and I'm going to go straight to bed. Don't worry."

He went back to the other side and found House still sprawled in the big club chair, his feet up and his eyes focused on the ceiling. "Weather's cleared. How are you feeling?"

"Just spiffy."

Wilson headed for the kitchen to start cleaning up. "So when do you want to go to Durham?" he called.

"Why, is there a new adult club opening there?"

Even though House couldn't see him, Wilson rolled his eyes. "Uh, no. Just thought you might want to see your dad."

"Why would I want to see him?"

Wilson marched to the doorway and stared his disapproval at his friend. "VA hospital. Mental breakdown. Ring a bell?"

House looked at him mildly. "More to the point, why would he want to see me?"

Wilson windmilled his hands. "Thought he was having some kind of major breakthrough in that department. Obviously there's ... issues he needs to clear up with you."

House shrugged. "The psych ward's crawling with shrinks. There's plenty of people for him to talk to."

Folding his arms, Wilson leaned against the doorjamb and studied the other man. "You know, if he does have a breakthrough and wants reconciliation, how are you going to deal with that?" _Cue change of subject_, he thought.

Sure enough, House abruptly reached for his crutches. "Gotta go pee."

"A-ha! That idea bothers you, doesn't it?" Wilson crowed, watching House lift his legs one by one off the ottoman and position the crutches. "I mean, what'll you do if your dad suddenly wants your forgiveness?"

House managed to get to his feet, resolutely not looking at Wilson. "Don't stand between a man with a full bladder and his toilet," he advised airily.

Wilson took a couple of steps and did just that, touching House's arm. "You're going to have to think about it, House. It could happen, you know. Your father is not necessarily a lost cause."

Their eyes met. Wilson kept his gaze steady; House's was puzzled.

"I paid the ransom for his life. What the hell else could he want from me?" Shaking his head, House lifted one crutch and made a sweeping motion with it. "Now get out of my way."


	25. Chapter 23

He was choking on blood. Instinct made him flail desperately until he was able to roll over and let his head hang down, hearing the blood spatter on the concrete floor as it dripped from the well of his mouth.

Pain blossomed in his face at the movement. _Jaw broken again_, he thought. The blood was mostly from his tongue, though, where he'd bitten it accidentally from the force of the guards' blows.

The pain and the blood helped distract him from the memory of his father's cold, dead eyes. If he concentrated on the hurt, let it consume him, maybe he could forget that his mother was dead.

The broken jaw meant a stay in the infirmary -- or else this time they'd just let him starve. Either option was fine. Anything was fine as long as he didn't have to move or think or remember.

Footsteps. Three men.

The sound stopped at the door of his cell. The lock snapped open and the door was thrown wide with an echoing clang, hellishly loud down in silent solitary.

"On your feet, prisoner," Boot-Boy growled.

He tried. Tried to get his arms under him, his legs to move, but he seemed to be weighted with lead.

"I said _on your feet_, you fucking piece of shit!"

The men approached him. Panicked now, House struggled to move, to get up, to breathe.

With a convulsive push he thrashed upright, flinging himself off the bed to land in a heap on the floor.

-----------------

Wilson started at the loud crash and was running toward House's room before he was fully awake.

House was crumpled on the floor on the far side of the bed, half curled up in a tangle of bedclothes, shaking violently. The harsh rasp of his breathing was loud in the bedroom's confines. Wilson was kneeling at his side in seconds, checking rapidly for clues to House's physical and mental condition.

"House? House, it's Wilson, are you okay? Are you awake?" He put his fingers on House's neck, finding the frantic pulse. House was gasping for breath like a drowning man pulled to the surface. "It was a nightmare, just a nightmare," Wilson told him, giving his friend time to reorient himself. Wilson used his touch and his voice as a beacon to help House find his way back from the terrifying memories. He stroked the short, damp hair and gently rubbed the man's back, talking softly and soothingly.

The clenched, spasming muscles under his palms eventually began to relax and House's breathing slowed. When he was finally able to speak, House's voice was thin and wheezy. "I'm really getting to like this floor."

Wilson smiled in spite of himself. "Can you bring yourself to part with it now?" House was lying in a heap, his arms trapped beneath him. Half the bedclothes were twisted around him.

"Yeah. Help me up ... my hands hurt."

Wilson unwrapped the blanket and sheet from his legs, then gently pulled House to a sitting position propped against him. "What about your hands? You okay?"

House passed the back of his right hand across his mouth, then gingerly touched his jaw. In the dim glow of the night light, Wilson saw him raise his left hand and look at it. "Broke a finger."

"What?" Wilson reached around and took his wrist, holding his hand up for a better view. The skewed pinkie finger was now even further askew. "We better get that set," he muttered worriedly.

"Yeah." House still sounded dazed. "Don't wanna jeopardize my future as a surgeon."

"C'mon, let's get you back up on the bed." Once House was settled, Wilson went to the hall closet where the medical supplies were kept. When he'd won his petition to the court to have House remanded into his care, he'd stocked up on everything he could think of, from syringes and gloves to a wheelchair and an IV unit.

Back in the bedroom, he dumped his armload on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. House was lying on his side, eyes screwed up against the sudden light.

"Let's take a look." Wilson pulled up a chair and gently took House's wrist.

The abuse House had suffered to his hands had left both little fingers practically useless, and his left ring finger was mostly numb. He also had carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists from the accumulated effects of trauma.

Wilson touched those hands as carefully as he would a small child's. "I'll numb this up before splinting it."

House barely stirred. "Don't bother. It doesn't matter."

Laying out the tape and scissors and gauze, Wilson paused to look at him. "It's gonna hurt without it."

"I know. I don't care."

"Well, _I_ care. And you're stuck with it." He prepared the syringe and gently injected the numbing agent. "Remember me telling you about Dr. Yeung? Best hand surgeon on the East Coast. He thinks he can help you. Repair some joints, straighten your fingers a bit. From what I hear, the guy's an artist."

"Wilson ..." It came out as a soft sigh. "What's the point?"

"What do you mean, 'what's the point'?"

"I mean I'm 50 years old. Do you really think I'm gonna see 60?"

Wilson turned to set the syringe on the nightstand, using those few seconds to frame his answer. "Sixty? I think you'll see 85 or more. It's only the good who die young," he said with a grin.

House gave a soft snort.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson escorted Blythe inside House's side of the duplex so she could share breakfast and a few more hours with her son before her sister came to take her back to Trenton. She had gotten no more than three steps into the living room when she spotted House, who was already seated at the dining room table.

"Greg, what on earth did you do to your hand?"

Like most mothers she seemed to have a supernaturally keen sense of observation when it came to her son.

As Wilson pulled out a chair for her at the table, House gave one of his half-shrugs. "Stumbled a little, knocked it against the sink," he mumbled. Wilson had splinted and bandaged the broken finger, making House even more awkward with that hand.

Blythe sat down and immediately held out her hand, a wordless command to her son. Grumbling, House let her see Wilson's bandaging job. She clucked her tongue and looked up at Wilson. "Thank you, James. I'm sure Greg forgot to say it."

Wilson smiled back at her. "If he ever did, I'd probably fall over dead from the shock. You're both welcome."

"We're both _hungry_," House piped up. "Where's breakfast?"

The presence of his mother was making him more than usually obnoxious, Wilson figured. He was gratified to see Blythe lightly smack her son's arm. "Gregory House, I did not raise you to be such a boor."

House looked at her. "Did too. Where else do you think I learned it?"

"You were born with it," Wilson sighed. "It's okay, Blythe. I don't blame you for him."

"Oh, thank goodness." The ghost of a smile curled her lips, though.

House turned wide, beseeching eyes to Wilson. "Please sir," he falsetto'd in a bad Cockney accent, "May we please have our porridge?"

Gesturing his surrender, Wilson headed into the kitchen. Truthfully, he was fascinated to see House with his mother, the one person in his life House loved and respected. More fascinating still was the strange power mothers exerted over their offspring. House was still an annoying bastard, but he never turned his sharp tongue or withering observations on her. To Wilson it was like getting a tiny, faded glimpse of the young man House had once been.

Blythe loved her son unconditionally, and despite his vehement protestations against the theory of unconditional love, House responded to it with his version of kindness and affection toward her.

Wilson brought out the meal -- fresh-squeezed orange juice, coffee, omelets, toast and muffins with jam on the side -- and took his place at the table. Blythe seemed well-rested and better for having visited her son. She didn't pretend he was perfectly fine, but seemed to see beyond what had been done to him to acknowledge that he was alive and healing and mentally himself again. Blythe House was a practical woman. She understood, to some degree, the challenges her child faced in getting on with his life, and she approved of the progress he was making.

"This omelet is perfect," she said, helping herself to more toast. "Where did you learn to cook so well?"

"Ladies' Home Journal," House said. "He's had a subscription since he was ten."

Blythe reached out and patted Wilson's hand. "Ignore him, James."

Wilson adeptly turned his glare at House into a casual smile for Blythe. "Oh, my dad cooked all the time. Mom was good, but Dad was better. He taught all of us how to cook when we were kids."

"That's wonderful. Everyone should learn how to cook. You know, when he was little, Greg used to help me out in the kitchen."

Wilson stared at her. "Really?" He processed that bit of information. "To steal food?"

She laughed. "Often. But he really did help. I remember taking a picture of him one night while we were making a cake for dessert. He had one of my old aprons tied around his neck, and his face buried in the icing bowl."

A slow smile spread over Wilson's face. "You ... have pictures of little Greg? I'd love to see those."

House's head came up like a wolf scenting danger, eyes narrowed. "Nope, sorry. I burned all those photos years ago. All gone."

Blythe looked down and smiled, shaking her head. "I've got albums full of pictures, James." She turned the sweet smile to her boy. "And Greg, if you follow your doctor's orders and do all your physical therapy, maybe I won't show them to him."

"That's _blackmail_."

Her smile never faltered. "Think of it as incentive, dear. Oh, that reminds me. I have some of your things I need to return to you. Your diplomas, yearbooks, all that."

Wilson nodded. "We'll drive up one of these days and get all of it. Then you'll have the chance to show me those photo albums."

"Ship the stuff C.O.D.," House said. "Wilson is never stepping foot in your house again."

"We'll see," Blythe replied with a wink to Wilson. "Now tell me, what's it like being back at work?"

"Fine." House used both hands to lift his coffee mug. "I don't actually have any patients yet. Chase and Foreman have some, though. Guess Cuddy wants to make sure I won't kill any of theirs before she gives me my own."

"Everyone's glad to have him back at the hospital," Wilson said. If he didn't tell Blythe, House certainly wouldn't. "His email is full of well-wishes, and you should see all the gifts people have been sending him. A lot of people want to see him succeed."

The warm glow on Blythe's face at hearing that more than made up for House's warning scowl.

"Oh, and I talked to Dr. Cuddy yesterday," Wilson added. "She went in to the office to check on some things, and apparently spent the whole time on the phone. You're a wanted man. Time magazine, Nightline, 60 minutes. Oprah."

"Oprah? Really?" Blythe looked excited. "I love her show."

House almost sprayed his mouthful of coffee. "What'd she tell them?"

"Nothing, I guess. Wants to hear from you."

"Was one of them Rolling Stone?" House's gaze unfocused as his imagination took over. "I always wanted to make the cover. Preferably as a rock star, though. With millions of adoring fans buying copies."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, impressed. House was really keeping it clean in front of his mother. "I'm sure they'd jump to talk to you."

"Greg."

Both men turned to look at her, hearing the soft warning in her tone. She looked her son in the eyes. "Be careful. You might not be prepared for all this just yet. Try to find it in your heart to forgive people their curiosity."

He looked down and nodded. "I don't want the attention, Mom. If I stay on the down-low, it'll all blow over and pretty soon no one will remember." A wistful smile brushed his lips. "But it's gonna be hard to turn down Rolling Stone."


	26. Chapter 24

Heels clicking on the vinyl flooring, Cuddy walked through the clinic to her office, glancing at the clock behind the clinic desk as she passed.

7:45 a.m. Monday.

Nurses and orderlies set about their tasks with purpose. A janitor finished cleaning the glass enclosing the clinic as a security guard casually patrolled the lobby.

Around her, the hospital was like a drowsing giant beginning to wake for the day.

Cuddy unlocked her office and went in, setting her purse and coffee cup down and taking off her coat.

It should be the same as any other Monday, but this morning she was aware of how different it felt to her. The atmosphere, the mood of the place, simply and finally felt _right_.

After years of mundane, gray sameness, the challenge had returned. Once again, a large amount of money was budgeted for the legal expenses of one Gregory House, M.D. The hospital's lawyers no longer sat smug and comfortable in their plush offices, handling ordinary matters. Now they were on a hair trigger, paranoid and anxious about what lay ahead. The security staff was fully briefed, human resources was stockpiling complaint forms, and Dr. James Wilson was smiling again.

House was back.

Cuddy sat down at her desk and leaned back in her chair, sipping her coffee. A smile crept over her face. Maybe someday she'd see House barge into her office to harangue her, quick with a smirk or scowl or leer, as he used to do before Thompson's intrusion in their lives.

_What's wrong with me that I miss it? _she asked herself wryly. With a sigh, she put her coffee down and turned to the stack of messages on her desk awaiting her attention.

--------------------------------------------------

"I'll park and go in with you." Wilson drove his Volvo around to the emergency wing's parking lot.

House was still a little groggy despite his morning coffee. "There won't be anyone in there. It's _early_."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's an ungodly hour to be up and around. Normal people should be sleeping."

"And you'd know normal." Wilson parked near House's car, which had spent the weekend in the hospital lot. Shutting off the ignition, he turned to look at his grouchy passenger. "House, it's only 7:45. Did you know that a lot of people actually have to be at work at 7 a.m.? And they survive it?"

"If they're crazy enough to take such a job, that's _their_ problem."

Wilson pocketed his keys. "Well, tomorrow you can drive yourself. Now stop bitching and let's go in." He helped House get up on his crutches and carried his backpack for him. Once inside, Wilson noted how few people were evident in the emergency department. Partly it was because the shift didn't change until 8 a.m. But the lack of gawkers probably owed more to the presence of the two security guards stationed in the ER lobby.

"Cuddy's gestapo," House muttered after a quick glance around.

"You complaining?"

House turned to head for his office, Wilson falling into step beside him. "This time ... no."

--------------------------------------------------

The diagnostics team had arrived at work at the same time and found themselves gathered at the staff entrance as Chase punched in his code.

Foreman slid a look at House's vehicle, still in its allotted spot. "Twenty bucks says he doesn't show today."

After Friday's excitement with the reporters and the press conference, none of them had been surprised when Wilson had taken House home early. Foreman didn't think anything of it -- House had had a truly harrowing day. The man's health and his nerves were still too fragile for such confrontations.

Devi shook her head. "It was all over the news Friday night, and in the weekend papers. I feel sorry for Dr. House. It's like they won't leave him alone."

As they walked down the hall Chase muttered, "Thank God for the injunction, or they'd have been showing that film from the parking lot."

"Dr. Cuddy and Dr. Wilson did try to warn us," Devi reminded them. She noticed that the blinds were still pulled over the Diagnostics lounge's glass walls.

"Yeah, but --" Foreman looked up as he unlocked the conference room door and saw House already there, seated at the far end of the table with a patient file open in front of him. "Dr. House, good morning. You're here early."

As usual these days, House's expression was closed and distant. "Yeah. Wilson gave me a ride." He nodded in reply to Devi and Chase's greetings, watching disinterestedly as they put away their various jackets and briefcases. Wilson had already made coffee, much to their delight.

After putting her lunch into the office fridge, Devi sat at the conference table and busied herself looking over the nurses' weekend reports of their patients, uncomfortably aware of her boss' presence at the other end of the table. He looked wan and gaunt and tired -- and still immeasurably better than he'd appeared Friday, when he'd last spoken to his team. She found it hard to look at him without picturing that disastrous scene in the parking lot, the utter wretchedness of the figure huddled on the ground, soaked to the bone in the pouring rain and waiting for the next blow to fall.

A cup of coffee was suddenly placed in front of her, and she jumped slightly. Foreman's glance was amused. "Figured you'd want some."

She smiled. "Yeah, thanks."

Chase leaned against the counter by the coffee machine, savoring Wilson's brewing skills. "I kept tabs over the weekend," he announced to the room in general. "None of our patients had a crisis. Sterling's stable, but no better. Carrig's heart monitor showed a few blips but nothing life-threatening."

House was flipping awkwardly through a patient file. "We'll start with Sista Rash." He brought his left hand from under the table to anchor the stack of papers.

Chase started with a gasp, jerking back and knocking over his coffee cup.

The sudden sound and movement made House flinch, the pile of folders at his elbow fluttering to the floor with an involuntary sweep of his arm.

Foreman instinctively moved to jump up, but Devi whipped out her hand to grab his sleeve, keeping him still.

For a moment, House and Chase just stared at each other.

Foreman growled, "Chase, what the hell's wrong with you?"

Chase's gaze was fixed on House's splinted and bandaged finger. He pointed to it. "That." His voice was a little unsteady. "That's how it started. Before."

Everyone's eyes turned to House, who was recovering his poise. He quickly pulled himself together. "It was an accident." He saw Chase's expression crumple slightly before the younger man turned his face away. Of course. Wasn't that what he'd always said? What he'd _had_ to say? Drawing a deep breath, House rubbed his right hand over his face. "I fell." And how many times had he said that, too? "Wilson was there. You can ask him."

At that, Chase relaxed slightly. House looked at Foreman's impassive face. Foreman only looked that blank when he was trying to hide feelings. At least Rajghatta's uneasy bewilderment was completely transparent.

"People don't come back from the dead," he growled at them. "Neither will our patients. Mind if we work on them while they're still alive?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cuddy was booting up her computer when a tap on her office door made her look up. Her assistant, Jenn Schacter, stood there. "Dr. Cuddy, there's someone here to see you."

Cuddy frowned. "I don't have anyone scheduled. If it's a reporter --"

"No." Jenn stepped inside the door and closed it, coming closer so she could speak softly. "His name is Jeff Burnes. Says he wants to talk to you about a donation to the hospital."

She stared at her assistant. "At eight in the morning, without an appointment? No wining or dining or schmoozing?" Jenn just shrugged in reply. "What's the world coming to," Cuddy muttered under her breath. "Who is he?"

The younger woman mutely held out a card. Cuddy took it.

Jeffrey R. Burnes, attorney. Regency Corporation. Company address, phone number, fax number, email address. She didn't know this lawyer, but she certainly knew about the company he worked for. She turned her baffled expression to Jenn. "Regency? David Masters, the jillionaire?"

It made no sense. Masters had no dealings with Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. While he gave millions to several philanthropic causes, he had no direct tie to her hospital. He'd made a considerable fortune in construction -- Vegas casinos, ritzy hotels and skyscrapers -- before funneling that fortune into stocks and investments. Now he was in the same rarified strata as Bill Gates and certain Saudi Arabian sheiks.

Absently Cuddy touched her hair, twitched her skirt to straighten it. "Jenn ... ask him to come in."

--------------------------------

The Regency attorney was nothing special, early forties, balding, weekend athlete type. But he carried himself with the assurance of a man who was paid very, very well.

When he had been shown into her office they had shaken hands and introduced themselves, and now he was taking a seat on the sofa at her request. Cuddy sat in the chair, trying not to let her curiosity show beyond mere interest. "What can I do for you, Mr. Burnes?"

He smiled pleasantly and reached into his valise. "Primarily, Dr. Cuddy, I'm here to give you this." He took out a manila envelope and handed it to her.

Well, there was no way she could hide her curiosity now. She took it and opened the flap. Inside was a sheet of paper and another, smaller envelope. Cuddy glanced at her guest, who smiled and nodded. "Please, go ahead and read the letter."

Her eyes took in the signature first -- sure enough, it was signed by no less than David Masters himself, on personal letterhead. She scanned through the opening courtesies to the heart of the message.

_Dr. Cuddy, I respectfully request a meeting with Dr. Gregory House, at the time and place of his choosing. Any steps you wish to take to ensure his safety I will be pleased to adhere to. The meeting concerns personal matters between Dr. House and myself, although he and I have never met._

_If you will deliver to him the envelope that accompanies this letter, I will donate $200,000,000 to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, for the construction of a research and treatment wing for the purpose of Dr. House's choosing. _

Cuddy thought her heart would stop.

_I wish only for him to read the enclosed letter. The money's donation is not contingent upon his agreeing to meet with me. My only condition, besides ensuring that Dr. House reads the letter, is that the new construction be named for Dr. Gregory House._

_The letter inside the envelope is for Dr. House's eyes only. In it, I ask Dr. House to meet with me under whatever terms he chooses. If you feel it necessary to read it before he does, then I ask that only you see it._

She looked up, trying to keep her hands from shaking. Burnes was still smiling pleasantly.

"What ... what is this about?"

The attorney made a small gesture toward the letter she still held. "Mr. Masters would like to meet with Dr. House, if it's possible. It's all there in the letter."

Cuddy swallowed. "Yes, but why? He says he's never met House. What could he possibly have to say to him?"

Burnes shrugged genteely. "I truly don't know, Dr. Cuddy. Mr. Masters hasn't taken me into his confidence on that point. But I guarantee he means Dr. House no harm. No harm at all. I'm here to witness Dr. House reading the letter in that envelope, if you choose to allow it. Then I will make a telephone call and the monetary donation will be released to your hospital. The paperwork is drawn up and a contract is ready for signatures." He indicated his valise.

"Why now, Mr. Burnes?" A sudden thought answered her own question. "You saw the news over the weekend."

He nodded. "Mr. Masters had no way to contact Dr. House until the news reported he'd gone back to work here. The police and the FBI were quite careful of his privacy. It's easy to presume that Dr. House is ... cautious about meeting people."

She swallowed again. "Two hundred million. That ... is a lot of money for a meeting."

"Mr. Masters is quite a successful man. I've come to trust his judgment on such things."

_No shit. You work for him_, Cuddy thought. "And all I'm supposed to do is give this letter to Dr. House? Have him read it?"

"Yes. That's all there is to it."

She tapped the blank, white envelope against her other palm, thinking. "We need to talk to Dr. Wilson."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I still think another EKG --"

House sighed loudly. "Fine. Do your useless test on him. Then do what I told you to do, if you want him to get better."

Foreman clenched his teeth and counted slowly to ten. The last few years had done nothing to make House easier to get along with.

"But first take Raja and check out Rash-Girl's house. I can't believe you haven't done it already."

Devi looked up. She'd heard the stories from Foreman and Chase, how they'd have to go ransack a patient's home looking for clues to their illness. This would be her first break-and-enter, and she was surprised to find herself actually a bit excited about the prospect.

The hall door opened, admitting Wilson with Cuddy on his heels. House watched them file in, then glanced at his minions. "Go on. Get started," he dismissed them.

Cuddy held the door for them, nodding greetings as they passed. When they were gone she let the door close.

"What brings you two here?" House picked up his coffee mug and slugged back some caffeine to hide his curiosity.

Wilson stood at the table, one hand on his hip, his expressive face showing bafflement. "House, do you know David Masters?"

He'd been out of the current-events loop for a few years, but _that _name he recognized. "Rich guy. Built the Paradiso casino. Probably a lot of other stuff since I was in the slammer. Why? He a patient here?"

Cuddy came forward. "Just a little while ago I talked with someone who works for him. It's ... well, here. Read this." She held out the letter she'd read in her office.

Looking at her suspiciously, House took it. He flicked a glance at Wilson, who just nodded. He'd read it already, then. He focused his attention on the print.

When he finished reading, he slowly sat back in his chair. "It's bullshit, Cuddy. I've never met the guy."

"Maybe you just don't remember. There must be a connection somewhere, House."

He narrowed his eyes. "You just _want_ there to be a connection. You're salivating for all that money."

Wilson studied the ceiling tiles a moment. "It _is _a lot of money, House. And all you have to do is read whatever's in that envelope, with one of Masters' guys witnessing."

House made a face. "How do I know it isn't a subpoena? Some kind of weird ... joke or something?"

Cuddy spread her hands. "If you'd rather, I can read it first."

"And where's this so-called 'witness'?"

She waved toward the hallway. "He's waiting outside."

House darted an uneasy glance toward the door.

Wilson took a step closer to him. "It's okay, House. Look, if you want to do this, we can just open the blinds. He can watch from the hall."

Eyeing the innocuous white envelope Cuddy had placed on the table, House was quiet for a moment. "No. Have him come in." He jerked his chin toward the chairs in the far corner of the room. "He can sit there."

A little amused, House watched Wilson move to stand between him and the stranger as Cuddy ushered the man into the lounge and showed him where to sit. Once he was settled, Cuddy said, "Mr. Burnes, this is Dr. House. House, Jeffrey Burnes."

The attorney nodded pleasantly at House. "A pleasure, doctor."

Wilson again stood near House, watchful as a pit bull. House studied the stranger. "You work for Masters?"

"I've worked for David Masters for ten years now," Burnes replied.

"As what, his delivery boy?"

Cuddy's entire body stiffened with horror. Oh God, House was going to flush the whole deal down the toilet.

But Burnes merely laughed. "Sometimes. My job encompasses a lot of areas. Lackey. Delivery boy. Assistant. Chief attorney for Regency Corporation. Secretary. You name it, I've probably had to do it at one time or another."

Still eyeing the man, House fumbled to pick up the envelope. He held it out. "_You_ open this. You know, just in case there's anthrax in there or something."

As Cuddy retrieved the letter and brought it to him, Burnes remained unfazed. "You're expecting a letter bomb? I assure you, no one means you any harm." He took the letter Cuddy held out to him, tore open the envelope, extracted the letter and opened it facing down so he couldn't read it. "See? Nothing sinister. Although truthfully, Dr. House, I can't blame you for your caution." He folded it again and held it out to Cuddy. She shuttled it back to place it on the table in front of House.

"Too much melodrama," House muttered, staring at the folded paper. Masters probably figured curiosity would get the better of him. And damned if he wasn't right. With his clumsy hands House unfolded the letter and read its message.

Wilson watched him like a hawk, ready to swoop in if anything was wrong. But House's face remained impassive, even after he finished reading and merely stared at the table blankly for almost a minute.

"House?"

The older man blinked and looked at Wilson. Then his expression closed up and he reached for his crutches, hauling himself to his feet and moving toward his office. As he passed Burnes he paused, not looking at him.

"Tell your boss I'll meet with him."

He went into his office without a backward glance.

---------------------------------------------------

Burnes stood up and adjusted his suit jacket. "Wonderful! Dr. Cuddy, I'll make that call now. Shall we go back to your office? You may wish to summon a notary."

Wilson reached for the letter House had left behind.

_Dr. House:_

_You don't know me, but we must talk. I have some of the answers you surely must be seeking. _

_If you will meet with me, I will grant another $200,000,000 to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, to construct and endow a new wing to be named after Dr. Allison Cameron, for whatever purpose you deem suitable._

_Your safety is assured. I will agree to any security measures you wish. Call me._

_David G. Masters_

_459-555-2020_


	27. Chapter 25

A/N: Thanks for your patience, once again ... real life, rewrites and holidays always trip me up, not to mention brainy betas who just INSIST on making me a better writer. To them I say, mille grazie, amici.

Please be patient a teeny bit longer -- Masters should pop up in the next chapter.

--------------------------------------------------------

"Dr. Cuddy." Wilson caught Lisa's attention before she walked out the door to catch up with Burnes. "You need to see this." He held out the letter House had left on the table.

The breathless delight in her dark eyes sharpened to curiosity. "Just a moment, Mr. Burnes," she called to the lawyer out in the hall. Taking the letter, Cuddy scanned it quickly. Her hand went to her throat in a gesture of amazement, and her eyes snapped up to Wilson's. "_Another_ donation? James ... oh, my God ..."

Wilson was equally flabbergasted. "Looks like Masters really wants to talk to House. But what could he possibly know that House would care about?" Frowning, he looked over at the closed door to House's office, then back to her. "You take care of Master's delivery boy," he said softly. "I'll talk to House."

---------------------------------------------

"House, it's me," Wilson said before going into the office. His friend occupied the Eames chair, shifted slightly to one side to spare the bruise on his hip. Pulling one of the visitor's chairs closer, Wilson sat down, crossing an ankle over the other knee and leaning back. Cocking his head slightly, he regarded the other man. "Any idea what's going on?"

House was striving for a neutral expression, but Wilson knew it was a cover. House was spooked by the stranger, uneasy about the turn of events and, as ever, dealing with the pain of his broken body. The reminder of Cameron surely added emotional pain to the mix. "No. No idea."

Wilson considered. "You sure you don't know Masters? Maybe you treated a relative or someone, years ago."

Shaking his head slightly, House sighed. "If I did, I didn't know it."

"But you're gonna meet with him?" House's reply was a half shrug. Sliding down in his chair, Wilson jiggled his foot for a few moments, thinking. "You don't care about the donations. Not really. So it's either that you're curious about what he wants to tell you, or --"

"Leave it alone, Wilson."

"-- it's your guilt over what happened to Cameron." Ignoring House's scoff and eye-roll, Wilson spoke gently. "Come on, House. You know there was nothing you could do. You're not Superman or the Terminator."

House's expression was pinched with pain for a moment. "If I'd pissed her off, made her quit, fired her, before things got so far along ..."

_Before her name had gotten added to that contract,_ Wilson supplied silently. "You're not psychic either," he said. "You had no way to know. There was nothing you could do, House. You have to accept that."

"That's crap." House put a hand on his belly just below his ribcage and squinched his eyes shut. He swallowed hard a couple of times.

Wilson sat up. "Hurt?"

"... 'm fine," he muttered. "Except for being fucking pathetic."

"Ulcer's coming back," Wilson nodded to himself. "I'll pick up some Prilosec for you, put you back on the three-week regimen."

House leaned his head back and sighed. Apparently the physical and mental stress and starvation of prison had given him an ulcer. Wilson had treated it while House had been crazy and mostly oblivious to what was happening. Now that he was aware, he'd have to put up with another round of treatment to heal it up if it really was an ulcer. He didn't want to think about it now, except Wilson was still talking.

"Not surprising. You've been dealing with a hell of a lot. How's your finger?"

"Fucked-up and useless. Which goes for the other nine, too." At Wilson's scowl, House waved his left hand at him. "Stop mother-henning, Wilson. A broken pinkie doesn't even register." He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

After a brief silence, Wilson said, "So when do you want to set up this meeting with Masters? How do you want to do it?"

House kept his eyes closed and his face blank, but Wilson saw the slight tightening around his eyes, the twitch of his maimed hands. Wilson glanced away, thinking about Cuddy. She was probably escorting Burnes to her office, overseeing the transfer of money. He stared at the door. It was strange being in an office at the hospital that didn't have glass walls. "You can change your mind. You don't have to meet with him."

"Yes I do." A grimace tugged at his mouth, and one hand went to his belly again. House opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, becoming resigned to his unease. "He knows something. Or thinks he does. And he isn't offering that kind of money just for admission to the sideshow."

"-- House --"

"It's blood money. Building wings for me and Cameron? What does he think he owes us?"

That distracted Wilson from his protest. Why _was_ Masters parting with such a huge sum to a hospital he had no tie to, in the names of people he'd never met? Wilson's pleasant tenor held a note of wonder. "Guy's paying _four hundred million dollars _to talk to you. You say you've never met him. What the hell is this all about? The letter said he had answers for you. What's your questions?"

_Why me,_ House thought immediately. That's what all his questions seemed to boil down to. Thompson had told him why, but it was a crazy man's irrational reasoning. It just wasn't answer _enough_. He'd gone through years of living a 10 on the suffering scale, on the whim of a rich whackjob with a bad temper. Where was the sense of it? The existential meaning of it? House snorted to himself. No God. No reason. No meaning. It was just what he'd always thought -- he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad stuff happens to good, bad and indifferent people.

"Says he has answers. Guess he already knows what my questions are, huh," House muttered. "Think he'd consider videoconferencing?"

"I'll be there, House. You know that. Cuddy too, if you want. Hell, just say the word and we'll do it at the FBI office. Masters said he'll do whatever you want."

_I don't want to meet him at all,_ House thought, then rolled his eyes in impatience at his own fear. "We'll ... we'll do it here. At the hospital." He wanted to push the words out, make the decisions, before he had time to think about it and allow his fears to dictate his life. "You, Cuddy. Maybe security guards nearby ..."

Wilson nodded. "When?"

House dropped his chin to his chest, thinking. Unconsciously his right hand moved to his thigh, massaging the echoes of pain there. "Wilson ... call Clarence. I ..." He couldn't make himself say he needed the security and the protection the big man provided. "When he can come, that's when we'll do it." It wasn't just Clarence's size and strength. House needed that unquestioning loyalty. Wilson gave him that too, but the younger doctor had nothing of Clarence's imposing badass attitude. Clarence could scare the crap out of anybody with just a look.

Smiling to himself, Wilson nodded. "Sure. He'd be glad to come. I'll call him today. Wonder what he's been up to lately?" Standing up, Wilson went into the conference room and came back with two fresh cups of coffee. Handing one to House, he sat down again. "Two new wings," Wilson murmured, still musing aloud. "The Gregory House wing. What do you want it to be for?"

House knew Wilson was sticking around to keep him from being alone after dealing with a stranger, making sure he felt calm and secure. He hated that he needed it. "Cuddy can figure that out. I don't care." Once again he could feel those brown eyes watching him.

"House ... it should be for research and treatment of pain. With that kind of money the equipment can be totally state of the art. Cuddy could hire the best people in the field. Imagine what they could discover and do to help people with chronic pain. It could be the biggest, best center on the continent for pain patients." Wilson watched House as the man tried hard to ignore him. "It would be a hell of a legacy."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Out of the corner of his eye Foreman noticed Devi tapping her fingers restlessly on the arm rest as he drove them through Princeton to Sterling's place.

"Hey, relax. You can stay in the car if you want to."

She turned wide, dark eyes to him. "What? But Dr. House told us _both_ to go."

"I know. But if you aren't comfortable doing this, don't worry about it. I can take care of it."

In her mind's eye she could picture their return to the office, Foreman describing what he'd found, House's questions ... and how it would look when he inevitably found out she'd waited in the car. House would kick her out then and there. Besides, she knew from hearing Chase and Foreman's stories that working for House meant breaking rules.

"No. I'm going with you," she said firmly.

Foreman grinned. "Suit yourself."

----------------------------

Sterling's home was a nice 3-bedroom brick ranch in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood. As Foreman parked his SUV in the driveway, he said, "Remember, we're looking for everything. House isn't convinced the problem is an allergen, so we've got to check for toxins, heavy metals, even radiation."

Devi nodded, looking nervously toward the street for passersby, neighbors -- or cops. "How will we get in?"

With a sly smile, Foreman held up a key. "I 'borrowed' this from the patient. As House used to say, 'work smart, not hard.'"

Once inside, Foreman started taking water samples while Devi headed for the basement to look for rat poison and whatever else she could find. When she came back up, Foreman had moved to the bedroom and bath, peering into cabinets. "No mold, no poisons, no leaks," she announced.

"Old chemicals? Fertilizers, paint, glues, anything like that?"

"Well, apparently she's something of a crafter. Got a kind of workshop down there. I've got samples of the materials." She leaned against the doorjamb, watching his methodical search. "Eric ... I told House you'd been planning to leave. That you decided to stay when you knew he was coming back." Devi fiddled with her latex gloves. "I'm sorry, you probably didn't want him to know."

Foreman was looking at her, but his expression was thoughtful rather than angry. "Why did you say anything about it?"

She shrugged. "It was that first day, when he told me to stay behind. He was actually nice. Said he understood but that he didn't want me to be distracted from taking care of my patients." Looking down a moment, she murmured, "He seemed so ... alone, I guess. I wanted to say something so he'd know he wasn't alone."

"You know, years ago, feeding House's ego was the last thing he needed. He'd have thrown that back in my face at every opportunity." A small, incredulous smile curved his lips. "He still might. But it's okay. I don't care that you told him. An ego-boost might do him some good."

Watching him lean down to look under the sink, Devi considered. "It means that much to you, working with House?"

"It might. Thought I'd stick around and see."

"See what?"

Foreman glanced at her over his shoulder. "See if he still has anything to teach me."

"Eric, I can never tell if you like House or hate him." She moved away to poke around the bedroom.

Under his breath, Foreman muttered, "Me either."

----------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson peered into Cuddy's office to make sure she was alone before nodding to the assistant and letting himself in. Cuddy had managed to keep Jenn far longer than her predecessors, and as a result, Jenn knew that Wilson had a mostly free pass into Cuddy's office whenever he wished.

Lisa was hanging up the phone as he walked in. She raised her eyebrows at him.

Taking a seat on the sofa, Wilson returned the look, a mix of shellshock, awe, and on Lisa's part, glee.

"Has the hospital board ordered your statue yet?" Wilson asked.

She sat back and spread her hands. "I wish I could take credit. Except for insisting the board give House his job back, I didn't do a damn thing for this." Cuddy put her fingers to her forehead for a moment. "God. Four hundred million. _Dollars!" _she exclaimed.

"Because of House," Wilson joined in her marveling.

"How is he, James? He seemed okay with Burnes in the room."

Wilson shrugged lightly. "Nervous as a nine-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Which seems to be normal for him now." Crossing his ankles, he relaxed slightly. "I think his peptic ulcer is coming back. He's been under a lot of strain, coming back here."

"He knows he can have days off whenever he needs them," she reminded him. "And I'm here if you, or House, needs help."

"Where's the delivery boy?"

She made a face at Wilson. "Come on, he's nice. He's upstairs with the legal department. I'm supposed to join them in 20 minutes." Tapping a finger lightly against her lower lip, she thought for a moment. "When does House want to set up this meeting? If I could tell Burnes today, that would be great."

His dark eyes met hers for a second, then slid away. "Uh ... actually, he's thinking tomorrow."

Lisa stared at him. "To - tomorrow? Like, the day after today?"

"I think House wants to get it over with. Do it fast, before he has time to get too scared. He wanted me to call Clarence to be there, with you and me. Some security guards in the hall. Clarence said he could come tomorrow, but after that it'd be a couple of weeks."

"And he wants to meet Masters in his office here?"

Wilson considered. "Well, here at the hospital, definitely. I'll ask him."

Cuddy looked dubious. "What if Masters can't make it? Do you think House will back out if it takes too long to meet with him?"

Raising his hands in a placating gesture, Wilson said, "Just ask Burnes to check with his boss and see if tomorrow will work. Around 1 p.m. -- I don't want it to be very late, or House will be too tired."

Cuddy gazed at the top of her desk, deep in thought. "If word of this leaks out, it'll be an even bigger circus than it was with House. If people know David Masters will be here ..."

Wilson winced. "Yeah. Better keep it need-to-know." He paused. "Lisa, did Burnes even hint at what this is all about?"

"No." She shook her head. "He acts like he doesn't know anything. I think he really doesn't."

"So ... what the hell does Masters know, and why is he willing to pay so much money to tell it to House?" The question hung in the air between them, but neither could come up with a plausible answer.

She blew out a breath. "If Masters can make it, I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tentative knock on his door heralded the arrival of the scans he was waiting for. "Come in," he called. He looked up in surprise to see Chase standing there, not an orderly with his films.

"Dr. Wilson, d'you have a minute?"

"Uh, sure ... sit down." He set aside the file he was working on. Two questions were on the tip of his tongue, neither of which he could bring himself to ask: Is House all right? and What did House do now? It was hard to keep the questions in.

Chase moved to stand near the chair. His hands were in the pockets of his lab coat, and his casual air was just a touch artificial. "I saw where House bunged up his finger. Just wanted to say if he needs it X-rayed, I'll be glad to help. You know, fewer strangers around ..."

Wilson nodded. "Thanks. Might take you up on that, if he agrees to the X-ray."

In the years House had been gone, Wilson had seen Chase around the hospital, talked to him occasionally. He'd seen the man mature with the passage of time, but Chase had also grown more distant, more emotionally disquiet. Wilson kept up with the hospital gossip, but that gossip rarely involved Robert Chase. The Australian didn't seem to have any real friends at the hospital, and if he was dating anyone here, it was well off the grapevine's radar. Chase was liked well enough, considered an excellent doctor, but the simple fact was, most people didn't look too far past the handsome face to see the man behind it. Wilson knew it served Chase well as the perfect mask. "What's on your mind?"

Chase's eyes darted to Wilson's, caught off-guard by the question. "Er, just the X-rays, you know."

Wilson let it play out in his mind, picturing the morning's DDX, and the pieces fell into place. "It scared you." At Chase's instinctive scoff, Wilson shook his head. "You saw his hand and ... wondered."

Admitting nothing, Chase just shrugged. "He said he fell. Heard _that_ one a hundred times before."

Wilson stood up and moved around his desk to the sofa, waving at Chase to sit in the chair. "He really did fall. It's okay, Chase."

Perching on the edge of the cushioned seat, the younger doctor made a face. "You don't have to -- I mean, well, people fall. I wasn't --"

"What happened to House affected all of us," Wilson interrupted, leaning forward on the couch. "We're all a bit twitchy." The dark eyes focused inward as he considered his words. "How many people have had such a close brush with madness? What happened was unthinkable. But we've _had_ to think about it. Deal with it, as well as we can."

"_We're_ twitchy? Nothing in our lives can hold a candle to what House has been through," Chase said dismissively.

A tiny smile twisted Wilson's lips. "Don't think what you feel doesn't count just because House had it worse. Anyone involved in House's life now has to acknowledge the existence of evil." He looked at Chase, as if to see if the other man was taking him seriously. "If you know what happened ... it's the difference between hearing about the devil and seeing him in person. I used to be able to tell myself that evil was just an idea. I can't believe that anymore." Wilson looked away. "I have nightmares that might even rival House's."

He could hear Chase's soft exhale, and hoped his words had struck a chord within the other man. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blond head nod slightly, as if to himself.

"He got stranger and stranger. Got quiet. For a long time, whenever I saw him, he looked angry. It was worse when the anger disappeared. Because then he was just dead inside. I think what made it so awful is that no one knew why, or what do to."

"Chase ... when House was arrested, Dr. Cuddy made you and Foreman see a psychologist. Quite a few people got counseling around then. It might help if you went back, or saw some other professional." Wilson held up his hand to forestall Chase's derisive expression. "No, don't blow it off. I'm serious. We've all been through a lot with this. You and Foreman need to be able to cope with all the changes -- in your jobs, in House -- to deal with the things House can't deal with." He smiled crookedly. "Like people."

Chase sighed. "Dr. Wilson ... I keep thinking the House I used to know is in there. I see flashes and glimpses of him, but ... that's all."

Sitting back on the sofa, Wilson brushed his fingers over the soft, cool leather. "Maybe that's all you'll ever see. I don't know, Chase. I have hope that he'll recover more, but it may take years."

Chase chewed his lip a moment. "I heard ..." He stopped abruptly and stood up. "No. Never mind. I'd better get back to work."

"What is it? What did you hear?"

After House had been arrested for Cameron's murder, the grapevine overran with stories that House had a secret dungeon full of kidnapped women, or that he was a drugged-out violent serial-killer, or a Satanist, or part of a cabal of sex- and power-crazed doctors ... the rumors had been insane, and people spread them breathlessly just for the fun of it.

When Thompson had been killed and his role in House's life revealed, the gossip mill cranked itself back up into overdrive, but this time the tone was totally different. Chase had heard that House had been tortured using car batteries, whips, strappado, cattle prods and waterboards. That he had been castrated. People speculated that he was raped in prison. That he had gone crazy. Rumors flowed freely from the media and through the hospital. Chase had even overheard gossip in the checkout line at the grocery store, the health club -- everywhere he went.

He'd felt emotionally whiplashed. House's reputation as an evil murderer was suddenly turned inside out, making him into an innocent man brutally punished for a sin he didn't commit -- which was actually closer to the truth. But the details of House's personal hell were under court seal, and Chase couldn't begin to imagine what was true and what was not.

He caught Dr. Wilson looking at him curiously. Wilson probably knew the whole truth of what had gone on, but he was House's one friend. Asking nosy questions would only intrude on their privacy. Chase sighed. "I've heard a lot of things. You have too. But I don't care what people say." He made himself meet Wilson's searching look. "My name was on that contract too. I know that if it had only been my name, House really wouldn't have cared that much ... but it doesn't matter. He protected all of us as much as he could." He hesitated. "Even Cameron ..."

Wilson was standing too, and when he spoke, his voice was soft as a whisper. "He didn't do anything wrong, Chase. He didn't cause them to take her life. This isn't public knowledge, but Thompson planned all along to kill her to avenge his dead daughter and destroy House."

Chase tried to speak, but his throat suddenly closed.

Seeing the other man struggling for control, Wilson touched him lightly on the shoulder. "There was no warning, no way for House to know what they were going to do. Certainly no way he could have stopped them, although he did try. You need to know that."

Chase nodded. "Thanks." He searched Wilson's face for something, some clue to how House's one friend had managed to cope. "Well." He looked away, getting to his feet. "I've ... gotta go now." A few long strides took him to the door, and then he was gone.


	28. Chapter 26

**A/N:** Last chapter, I promised that _this_ chapter would introduce David Masters. I only fibbed slightly ... Chapter 27 is where Masters comes in, and it is in the talented hands of my betas right now. Come heck or high water, I should be able to post it in no more than three days. Thanks for reading!

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The phone's ring jarred him out of a light doze. It took a few seconds to orient himself as he gazed blearily around. Office. Desk. Three-ring binder for a pillow ...

Blinking, House sat up and looked at the phone's ID readout before pawing at the receiver. The splint on his little finger clunked against the plastic. What moron had decided to put his phone on the left?

"Tri-Lambda house. Which Lambda would you like to try?" he rasped.

Wilson's sigh was a comforting, familiar sound. "If this is Animal House, I guess that makes you Bluto. Listen, I've got a meeting until noon, but you can page me if it's important. Would you order lunch for us? Send it to my office at 12:10. I'll bring it down."

"My choice?"

"Yep. But House -- get something bland."

It was House's turn to sigh. "Bland. Right."

"We'll test for the ulcer soon, just to be sure. And I still want to X-ray that finger, make sure it's set properly."

"Like it matters." It was so like Wilson to obsess over lost causes, he mused.

"Don't give me any crap. I'll talk to you at lunch. 'Bye."

House let the receiver drop onto its cradle.

Bland. Shit. That meant Thai, Indian and decent pizza were off the menu. But the burning sensation in his gut was undeniably symptomatic of an ulcer. He realized he was staring at the legal pad on his desk. It was serving as a stand-in white board -- on it he had scrawled the department's current patients and their various symptoms. He could barely read his own writing.

It hurt his fingers and wrist to hold the pen and write. Between the tremor, the stiffness and the pain even his efforts at block printing were damn near illegible, but he'd forced himself to do it as a form of occupational therapy. It wasn't completely impossible that he could regain some fine motor control in his dominant hand, if he kept at it.

He'd fallen asleep at his desk mulling over the patients. Coming in cold on these cases was certainly no advantage, and House had to admit to himself he'd been distracted by all the logistics entailed in returning to work, not to mention putting himself in the public eye.

It was every bit as hard as he'd thought it would be. His old fellows weren't fellows any more, but full-fledged attendings, which shifted the old power base and his relationship with them. He had a new fellow he hadn't hand-picked, and while that wasn't Raja's fault, it made her a puzzle piece that may or may not fit. Too soon to tell on that one.

A lot had changed since he'd last headed the diagnostics department at PPTH, not least of which was himself. Everyone was tiptoeing around Dr. Head Case. The bitch of it was, the tiptoeing was justified.

"Sucks to be me," House muttered under his breath, reaching for the phone book.

Wilson said bland, so House settled on Italian. He awkwardly punched in the number of Fresca Italia. Their chef was straight from Firenze and made everything from scratch. Wilson had discovered the place, and there was no doubt the man knew his cuisine.

"Fresca Italia, this is Shelly, how may I help you?"

As a regular delivery customer, House recognized the woman's voice.

"Hey Shelly, it's John Holmes," House said, falling back on his food-ordering pseudonym. He didn't want people connecting his real name with his home address, so he'd come up with an alias. Shelly, apparently, was unfamiliar with 1970s male porn stars.

"Hey John, how ya doing? Kind of early for you to call."

"Yeah, I'm getting lunch this time, not dinner. Need it delivered at 12:10 to Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, fourth floor, James Wilson, head of oncology. Take a hard left out of the elevator."

"Uh huh ... fourth floor ... got it," she murmured, writing down his instructions. "You aren't sick, are you?"

"Physically? No."

She laughed. "Well, since we're delivering to the hospital, thought I'd better check. If you're not a patient, I guess you're either visiting or you work there. Night shift? You always sound like you just woke up. Got that sexy rough voice."

House blinked in surprise. What the ...? He did some mental rummaging before it slowly dawned that she was _flirting _with him.

_God, _it had been a long time.

"So, are you really Italian? And is it true what they say about Italian girls?"

"Yep, I'm as Italian as they come. And everything you've heard is probably true," she mock-assured him with a laugh.

The low chuckle made him close his eyes, a smile slowly curving his lips. Shelly was definitely flirting, the little minx.

"Mmmm ... _spicy,"_ he growled into the receiver just to hear her laugh again. "I'd better tell you my order before you make me forget what day it is."

"Fire away."

He rattled off the list of food and drinks, and when it was done she repeated it back and told him the total. "Hey, one of these days why don't you come in and eat? We've got great deals on Mondays and Wednesdays. Bring the wife and kids."

Uh huh. She was checking his availability.

"No wife. No kids."

"Then bring a friend. I'll make sure you get the best service."

House laughed softly. "You just want to scope me out."

Her tone was playful. "Ohhh, listen to you, Mr. Ego. Maybe I'm just inviting you to enjoy some fine dining at Fresca Italia. I bet you're pretty cute, though."

_I bet I'm not,_ House thought. His smile faded. "And you sound like one hot babe. Thanks, Shelly. Gotta get back to work now."

"Okay. 'Bye."

"'Bye."

He dropped the phone on its hook and cursed himself for a maudlin fool. It was stupid to feel disappointed. It wasn't like he'd ever been a prize catch even back in his prime. Now that he was old and ruined, there was no point in even fantasizing about such things. Even hookers were probably out of the picture -- no telling how much they'd charge him after getting a good look.

That part of his life was gone and grieving over it was pointless, he berated himself. Work would have to be his fulfillment. At least _that _he was almost sure he could still do.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The tap on his door was followed by Cuddy's voice. "House? It's me."

House closed the textbook he was reading -- case studies of immunological disorders -- and looked up, curious. "Come in." This had to be about Masters.

She walked into his office, all smiles.

"Social call?" he inquired.

Sitting in one of the chairs across from his desk, Cuddy crossed her legs and met his direct gaze. "Thank you for reading that letter. You realize this is the biggest contribution in the hospital's history."

"Uh huh. Bet you'll get a fat bonus out of it." It was an observation, not a criticism.

Cuddy just shrugged. "The board knows I had nothing to do with it. House, I just want to make it clear that you don't have to meet with Masters if you don't want to. It's your decision."

"I know." He looked away. "He's got something. Some piece of information he really wants to tell me. Wish he'd just leave it in a voice mail."

"So you're sure? Wilson said you want to do this tomorrow."

When in doubt, stick with bravado, House thought. "That's right."

"I asked Burnes to check with his boss. Turns out Masters _can_ make it tomorrow."

"He wasn't even pissed off? Damn."

Cuddy smiled. "Sorry to disappoint you. So ... Clarence is coming. Who else do you want to be there?"

"Wilson," House said immediately. He looked away. "And you. Your big chance to suck up."

He's like a 7-year-old, she thought to herself. House wanted her there, but didn't want to admit it. Throwing in an insult was supposed to keep her from noticing. Sometimes the man had all the subtlety of a preschooler. "Yeah, don't want to pass that up," she agreed wryly. "I can reserve a conference room ..."

With a sigh House shook his head. "Then Masters and I would both have to parade through the hospital to get there. People catch sight of _him_, you'll have an epic media frenzy." He glanced at the door leading to his courtyard. "Better to do it here. He can come in this way," a nod of his head toward the door, "under everybody's radar."

"Good idea. Burnes said Masters will be flying in from Colorado. I think he wants to keep this quiet, too." She watched him leaf through the patient reports on his desk, concentrating to make his crippled fingers do what he wanted. Sometimes when she looked at him she still saw the bruises, the closely shorn hair, sunken eyes locked in a thousand-mile stare, the skin of his face grayish and stretched tight over the bones of his skull. It was a disturbing memory Cuddy didn't want.

Looking at him, Cuddy let herself realize that House was really, truly back from the dead. The hundreds of times she'd wanted to kick his annoying ass to the curb weren't forgotten. But she'd lived through the gray days when he was gone, and every day had seemed the same. She'd felt distinctly that something was missing. Something was not right. Wilson, too, had ghosted through those years as if only half alive. Some essential spark had vanished from their lives.

Cuddy was a doctor. She had seen the relatives of comatose patients display the very same type of vague incompleteness. The one they missed was neither dead nor alive. There but not there. She and Wilson had wanted to mourn what felt like a death, that of a man they would never see or talk to again. But there was no death to mourn, because he was still alive and forever out of their reach.

Unfinished business, Cuddy thought. Loose ends. Those things you try to grasp with phantom limbs, that unsettle your subconscious and give you uneasy dreams.

That essential spark was back now. Justice had not been perfectly served, but at least House was a free man. He owned his own life again, was gaining strength and getting back to what he did best. The state had given him millions of dollars in place of his lost years, lost career, lost health. Money was all they could give him in repayment, along with punishing some of those who had tormented him. It wasn't nearly enough.

She noticed his eyes on her, his expression starting to darken. He was getting suspicious of her long silence. "Needless to say, the board is breaking out the champagne," Cuddy continued. "You're the man of the hour. More like the century."

"Right. Except I didn't do anything. It's Masters donating the money." He took up his crutches and levered himself to his feet, heading for the light box on the wall. House flipped its light on and grappled with an X-ray film on the shelf beneath it.

Cuddy knew better than to offer to help. She watched him finally get a grip on the film and push it under the holding clip, wincing at the audible pop in his shoulder when he raised his arm. Carefully, she said, "You know ... Masters said one of the new wings is to be named for you."

House was staring at the X-ray and didn't comment.

"The board already wants to know what you want to do with it. They'll want you involved in the planning. And then there'll be the dedication."

"You and Wilson can figure out what to do with it. As for the rest: No, and no."

Well, that was no surprise at all. Cuddy stood up to get a look at the X-ray he found so fascinating. "I've already told them not to expect you to get directly involved." She joined him in peering at the chest film. "It's just that this is such a huge thing. Two new wings, and all that money! They're a little slap-happy."

"Then let them get drunk and trash a hotel room like normal people. I'm not gonna be their March of Dimes mascot."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. A little dramatic, don't you think --"

"They can celebrate without me. I don't -- wait a minute." House moved back to the desk and looked at the patient file again. "Cuddy ... where did you say Masters was flying from?"

"Uh ... " She mentally backtracked the conversation. "Boulder. Colorado."

"Colorado. Right." House was thinking furiously. "Edema. Rash. Joint pain." He fumbled for his pager on the desk and held it out to her. "Page Chase."

Cuddy took the device and punched in the numbers. "Why? What is it?"

House wasn't listening. "Fuck. _Fuck! _I should have thought of it sooner. Too damn distracted with all the crap going on." The phone on his desk rang, and he grabbed at it. "Chase? The woman with the rash. It's Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Start her on 100 mg doxycycline and monitor her closely. She's black, so if we've waited too long she may start circling the drain."

"But she didn't report a tick --"

"'Cause apparently she's an idiot. Or oblivious. Do the test and start the meds." He hung up.

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"It's me," announced Chase's voice to go with the tap on the connecting door.

"Yeah."

Chase opened the door and stood there. "Test was positive." He paged through the stack of lab reports in his hands. "It's weird, though. Liver enzymes are about normal, no jaundice, and she swears she never noticed a tick."

House reached for his crutches, using one to gesture Chase back into the conference room. "So, those are two symptoms of her _other_ problem. Write 'em on the board."

He crutch-stepped into the room just as Foreman and Rajghatta came in. Chase was frowning at the white board. "_Other_ problem? What other problem?"

"We're diagnosticians. I'm sure we can figure it out."

Foreman and Devi exchanged puzzled looks. "Are you talking about Sterling?" Foreman asked.

"Yeah." Chase was still pondering House's words. "She tested positive for spotted fever -- House's idea."

It was Devi's turn to frown. "But she said --"

"Yeah, I know. No tick. Rash, fever, but no suspicious change in liver function." Chase looked at House, who was leaning against the doorjamb watching his team play catch up. "You're thinking her enzymes were low before she got sick?"

"It's possible."

Foreman thought about it. "So she has an underlying condition that lowers her enzymes? You're saying the spotted fever _did_ raise them, but for her, that would bring them to approximately normal levels."

Devi nodded. "And some type of neuropathy, to explain why she didn't notice the tick?"

Chase raised the dry erase pen to the white board, and the differential began.

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It was nearly 12:30 by the time Wilson made it down to Diagnostics, laden with bags of food from Fresca Italia. "House? Brought lunch." He managed to free a hand and let himself into House's office.

House sat at his desk, scowling over a stack of lab reports. He looked exhausted and highly displeased.

Wilson stopped short and peered at him. "Whoa. What's going on?"

With a ragged sigh, House leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Almost killed a patient."

"What? Who?" Wilson put down the bags and began setting out the food, operating on autopilot.

"Rash girl has Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, and I didn't even see it until today."

"House ... that's a tough one to diagnose, even for doctors who treat it often. I mean, how many cases have you ever seen in your practice?"

House just shook his head. "It was right in front of me. It came up in the DDX but we dismissed it because she denied any tick bites, and the presentation was atypical. I should have just ordered a test for it anyway, before she got worse."

Wilson sat down. "Ease up, House. The point is, you nailed it. She'll probably be fine. Even you rarely got it right on the first try, back when." He pushed House's food over to him. "Eat. Then take your meds and maybe a short nap."

The fork dropped from House's fingers when he picked it up. He tried again and got a better grip, poking experimentally at the slab of lasagna in the foil take-out tray. "Cuddy says Masters can make it tomorrow."

Wilson whistled softly. "What the hell is with this guy? He'll drop everything to come to Jersey for this?" He lowered his bite of linguini back to his plate. "Clarence will be here. And I wouldn't miss this show for the world."

"I hate this. All this ... mystery. Drama." House let his fork drop, glowering at the desktop. "I hate not having answers. I hate --" he stopped before he could admit aloud that he was afraid.

"Tomorrow, House. Twenty-four hours, and you'll have the answers," Wilson said soothingly. "Everything will be okay. I'll be there, Clarence and Cuddy too. Don't short circuit over it."

He turned his glower to Wilson. "I'm _fine_. Stop staring at me like that."

"Then eat."

House sighed and picked up his fork.


	29. Chapter 27

Propped against the headboard, House watched Wilson select clothes from his closet. A new, crisply ironed shirt was placed over the footboard, then the new suit Wilson had bought him a few weeks ago.

"You've gotta be kidding."

Wilson seemed preternaturally calm, as he often did when preparing for a long, particularly difficult argument. "Nope. Not kidding. I _am_ prepared to negotiate about the tie, however." He held out his choice for House's perusal.

"We're talking about Masters. The guy made his dough in construction. He'll probably be wearing jeans and a hard hat," House scoffed.

"I doubt it, but even if he does, this is not about him."

"What does that mean?"

Wilson sat on the bed near his friend, thinking about what he wanted to say. "House, in the medical world your reputation precedes you. You can dress in jeans, not shave, ignore your lab coat, and people will give you a certain amount of leeway. But Masters isn't from our world. For an outsider like him, maybe you should look like a doctor."

"I have nothing to prove to him."

Wilson looked at his hands. "I know. There's no telling why he's meeting with you, but it's for his own reasons. Still, if he comes away with the impression that you're back at the top of your game, that you're the very image of a competent, capable doctor, well, he might spread the word. Tell everyone that what Thompson did couldn't even faze you."

House stared at Wilson, hearing the words the other man didn't say. Wilson wanted him to put up a strong front and not let it show that Thompson had damn near crushed the life out of him. Masters was influential. If he thought House was okay, he might drop a word here and there and help dissuade rumors that House was a basket case.

"You want me to fake him out," he summed up.

"Couldn't hurt."

House cast a contemplative gaze at the clothes Wilson had laid out. "As long as we keep me sedated to the gills, it might work. Think Masters will notice?" he asked lightly.

"Not as long as you keep from drooling," Wilson replied in the same light tone. "Or falling asleep when he's talking."

"You're asking a hell of a lot. And forget the tie. No way."

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Cuddy turned away from the computer screen where she was drafting a press release and reached for the ibuprofen in her desk drawer. The hospital's board members knew about the donation, of course, but not that Masters was visiting the hospital. She'd have a riot on her hands if they knew, every one of them jumping up and down to shake hands with the famous man and try to get a chance to be noticed by him. Masters clearly wanted to meet House quietly and easily, without any hooplah.

She, however, _was_ going to be there. Her new shoes were pinching her feet and her stomach was knotted with anticipation. She'd bought a new outfit just for this occasion and spared no expense on it. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to rub elbows with one of the world's richest men -- and possibly bring him on board for future donations to PPTH.

_A little greedy there, girl_, she chastised herself. As if the huge fortune Masters was giving them wasn't enough!

Swallowing the headache pills with her cooling coffee, Cuddy tried to stay optimistic. Masters seemed to understand something of House's mental state. At least he was willing to accommodate any insecurities House might harbor. Now if House could just refrain from totally antagonizing the guy ... well, that's all she could ask. _Just let us be able to keep that money_, she prayed silently. Even more urgently she prayed that whatever the multibillionaire had to say, it wouldn't cause an emotional setback for House.

The doxycycline treatment was helping his patient, Sterling, according to the latest test results. She felt a thrill of satisfaction at that. After all, she had been the one to suggest House return to his old position, and she'd gone to great lengths to make it happen. House had been right, that night she'd shown him around his new office. He had said that if he failed, she'd look like an idiot to the board.

And in his most secret, most hidden heart-of-hearts, House knew that. He knew Cuddy was going out on limb for him. His overbearing pride would not allow him to fail -- or fail her -- if it was within his ability to succeed.

She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. It was cold. Okay, time to stop woolgathering and take care of matters. Clarence Neal was expected to arrive around noon, and Cuddy had to arrange for a security guard to meet him at the front desk to escort him to Diagnostics. Wilson was having lunch catered for himself, House and Clarence prior to Masters' arrival. She was invited, but hospital business took precedence. Cuddy knew Wilson had ordered a cajun banquet from one of the best authentic restaurants in town in Clarence's honor, since it was the big man's favorite cuisine. Poor House, with his incipient ulcer, would have to make do with bland versions of the restaurant's famous dishes.

Then there was Foreman, Chase and Rajghatta. She'd explained to them that an important meeting was to take place this afternoon, and because of House's particular circumstances it was to be held in the department's office. Cuddy had offered them a two-hour lunch at an expensive restaurant, paid by the hospital, in return for being temporarily ousted from their department.

Security was alerted, the hospital was in tip-top shape (in case Masters wanted a tour later), and she was dressed to kill and ready to turn on the charm. Cuddy smiled.

If House could read her thoughts, he'd be gagging.

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"Hey Dr. Wilson, good to see you. Here I am, ready for the big meeting," Clarence said, entering the conference room.

Wilson nodded to dismiss the security guard escort and closed the door, grinning up at the man and taking the huge hand Clarence offered him. "Hey Clarence, I'm really glad you could come."

"Me too." The big man turned, still smiling, and went to his former patient. "Doc, you're lookin' great."

House stared up at him from his seat at the table. "Have you gone blind? Siddown, take a load off."

"Dr. Wilson told me you were back at work. Nice office," Clarence said, pulling out a chair at the conference table. "How you doin'?"

House liked Clarence. The majority of the time he'd spent in the big man's company was lost to him, since it had been while he was semicatatonic. Clarence had had a wedding coming up and plans to move to Baltimore, so Linda McAllister had been found to tend to House. It was under Linda's regime that House had regained what sanity he could claim. The first time he'd truly met Clarence was a month after that day in the burger joint with Wilson, when House had come to himself only to get a chocolate shake down his shirt.

Wilson had wanted to give House that month to get his mental balance before having Clarence visit. It had been a strange meeting for House, with an almost overwhelming sense of deja vu. The huge black man was a total stranger to him, and yet ... he seemed to recognize every gesture and every nuance of the man's speech. The familiarity and unfamiliarity, both pulling at him at the same time, had made House uneasy. And this was the man who had looked after him while he'd been a drooling idiot. Clarence Neal had dressed him, fed him, washed him, tucked him into bed, carted him around like a sack of potatoes ... House had found himself rendered speechless by a profound embarassment .

Clarence had appeared to understand that. He had smiled, but his eyes were serious when he spoke his first words to his former patient. "Dr. House? It's good to finally meet you."

House's unease had begun to ebb from that moment. Clarence didn't think of him as the mindless, helpless thing he'd been under the nurse's care. He was himself again, conscious and aware. And Clarence respected him as a man.

Clarence had visited House twice more since then, claiming he had to make sure his replacement was doing her job getting House to toe the line with his physical therapy. When Clarence had at one point confessed to having played in a band during his school days, he'd unknowingly cemented his position as one of House's few friends.

And anyone who was House's friend had to be able to take abuse.

Wilson began serving the catered meal as House answered Clarence's question. "I'm doin' great. Wilson keeps giving me the good dope. Don't have a care in the world. You crushed the missus yet?"

Clarence always seemed to find House amusing and never took his jibes personally. His good humor might have been because he was big enough to squash House like a bug if he ever took a notion to. "She's pretty tough, Doc. Don't seem to faze her none. Got your foot done, huh," he said, noting the ortho boot and crutches leaning against the wall. "What about the knee?"

"Knee too." House's expression grew morose as Wilson handed him his less-spicy food. "Ulcer's back. On the other hand, I got a new office and minions to order around now. Fair trade-off."

"Yet oddly enough, the pain in _my_ ass just keeps getting worse," Wilson threw in dryly.

Clarence chuckled. "Thanks, guys. This sure is a fine meal. So, you seen the last of Linda? Now that Doc's back at work, guess you don't need the help."

"Linda's on call, you might say," Wilson said. He took the foil off the dish of blackened salmon and breathed in the aroma, closing his eyes with bliss. "Ahhhhh. The food of the gods."

"Just pass the crawfish etouffee," Clarence directed. "And don't forget the rice."

------------------------------------------------

When the meal was done Wilson gave House his afternoon pills with a sedative chaser. He let House and Clarence talk while he cleaned up after their lunch and put the remainder of the food away. House had only picked at his food, and when Wilson had offered the sedative he'd grimaced, disgusted by his own weakness, and taken it.

Last night House had been restless and distracted, unable to stop thinking about the meeting coming up the next day. Wilson had offered him a light sedative to help him relax and sleep, and suggested he take another before the meeting. House had reluctantly agreed to it. He didn't want to take the chance on freaking out in front of David Masters.

Now that it was almost time for their guest to arrive, House was growing quiet. A certain amount of tension crept past the sedative calm. He would glance at Wilson, as if to assure himself his friend was there, then at Clarence. One was his lifeline, the other his bodyguard. Cuddy would arrive with Masters, joining him in his car to guide him around to House's patio door.

At this moment, Wilson thought, security guards were stationing themselves at either end of the hallway. They were just a precaution, mostly to bolster House's sense of security. No one at PPTH but the head of security, the Dean of Medicine, and Wilson, House and Clarence knew that David Masters was gracing the hospital with his presence.

With the mess cleared away, Wilson took off his lab coat and put on his jacket. "House? Want to get settled in your office?"

There was only a hint of dread in House's eyes as he nodded. "Yeah. Guess so."

Clarence, also wearing a nice suit -- giving the effect of a well-dressed mountain -- stood up and stretched. "Let's get this show on the road, then."

-----------------------------------------

The only sign that House had heard the sound of the car doors was a slight tensing of his shoulders. He stood leaning on his crutches, his back to the bathroom door, facing the courtyard and trying to prepare himself to deal with whatever came. Clarence stood between him and the courtyard door, his casual posture making him seem more like a colleague than a bodyguard.

And Wilson stood at the end of the desk, ready to greet the billionaire as House's ersatz spokesman.

There was the sharp click of Cuddy's high heels, her voice saying "... kind of you to agree to meet here."

"I think it's best all around to keep this simple," a man's voice replied, then Cuddy and Masters stepped through the gap in the hedges that screened House's courtyard.

Cuddy looked through the glass and met Wilson's eyes. So far so good, he was letting her know. 

Cuddy opened the door and entered, Masters behind her. "Mr. Masters, this is our head of oncology, Dr. James Wilson. "

Masters smiled as Wilson stepped forward. They shook hands, Wilson saying, "A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Masters replied. He was not a tall man, perhaps 5'10", with a ruddy complexion and ginger hair going to gray. His solid build, weathered skin and sunbleached eyes spoke of years spent outdoors doing hard work.

"And this is a colleague and friend, Clarence Neal," Cuddy continued. Masters smiled and shook Clarence's hand without a trace of awe. "And this is Dr. Gregory House," she said, with a nod to the man furthest away from the group.

Masters' gaze took him in, his smile fading to a serious, rueful expression. "Dr. House. I am truly glad to meet you." He made no move at all toward House, and kept his body language open and relaxed.

House managed a nod. "Masters," he rasped. The intent look on his face betrayed his curiosity.

"Why don't we sit down and get comfortable?" Cuddy suggested. She'd had some good chairs moved to House's office and a portable bar. "Drinks, gentlemen?"

House watched how everyone sorted themselves out. Masters took a cushioned chair the furthest from House, as if he knew -- or had been instructed -- to give House a lot of space. Clarence simply leaned against the credenza where he'd been standing, staying nearest to his charge. Wilson took a chair by the desk, swiveled so he could see everyone, and Cuddy, after serving drinks (Clarence and House both refused) sat closer to Masters so that he wouldn't seem isolated. Finally, sure that he knew everyone's position in the room, House lowered himself into his desk chair.

Masters took a sip of the scotch he'd requested, and smiled beautifically. "A Laphroaig, if I'm not mistaken. This came from someone's collection."

Cuddy smiled. "This is a special occasion, from the hospital's viewpoint. Why not break out the good stuff?"

He grinned back. "I certainly do appreciate it, Dr. Cuddy." Smoothly, making sure not to be abrupt, he said, "Dr. House? This is a fine scotch you're missing."

In a level tone, giving nothing away, House said "Doctor's orders. I can't have any of the hard booze for now."

Masters nodded. He took another appreciative sip from his glass before setting it down. "And you no doubt want me to stop making small talk and get down to business."

"No one's trying to --" Cuddy started to say, but Masters just smiled and waved a hand.

"It's fine, doctor. People think because I have a lot of money that I automatically have good breeding. I only wish it was true," he chuckled. "I'm pretty much blue collar all the way, doctors. Oh, I've gotten some education, learned to smooth a few rough edges. But I'd much rather sit and talk to a carpenter or a bricklayer than senators and such. Sometimes I'm a little too blunt, maybe. At least when you're blunt, everything's above board and clearly defined." Masters sat back a little and looked at House. There was nothing in his gaze to suggest a threat. He simply looked thoughtful as he studied the reclusive Gregory House.

"I gave this hospital a lot of money, Dr. House, hoping I'd get this chance to tell you, to your face ... I am so very sorry for what happened to you. You crossed paths with pure evil, and few people get out of that situation alive."

"Why do you care?" House asked, more curious than rude.

Masters sighed. "You'll notice that I'm here by myself. Didn't even bring my legal counselor. What I have to say is personal, and to be honest, I'd rather be speaking to you alone, doctor. But I can well understand your wish to have these folks here. So before I go shooting off my mouth, I have to ask a couple of questions." He looked at Clarence. "Mr. Neal? Are you an agent of law enforcement?"

Clarence raised an eyebrow. "I'm a nurse, Mr. Masters, not a cop."

The billionaire nodded, and addressed his next question to the room in general. "Are there are any recording devices in this room?"

Wilson blinked and stared at the man.

Cuddy's jaw dropped slightly. "I ... no, Mr. Masters, I can assure you there are not."

Masters nodded, having covered the legal bases. "Well then, here's what I came to say. Dr. House, I know you came off pretty well financially from your legal settlements. More power to you. You aren't hurting for money, so instead of giving it to you, I gave it to this hospital. The money is a sort of apology, you see. Because I feel a little bit responsible for what happened to you." Squaring his shoulders slightly, Masters seemed to be bearing a great weight. "Robert Thompson was my cousin, but we were raised like brothers. And I'm the one who had him killed."


	30. Chapter 28

The silence that Masters' words left behind them was deafening. For a moment everyone was shocked motionless. Masters himself was still, almost as if he was as surprised at his confession as they were.

Wilson turned his gaze to House, who sat behind his desk, eyes wide, face frozen in an expressionless mask.

Then House slowly pushed his chair back. One wheel squeaked softly, sounding loud in the silent room. House rose to his feet and began to move around the desk, crutches forgotten. He leaned on the desk, the wall, anything that could give him balance and support as he dragged his booted foot behind him.

Wilson glanced at Clarence and slowly stood up as House lurched to a stop in front of David Masters, looming over him.

"You killed him. You?" There was no inflection to House's ragged voice.

Masters looked up at him. "I had it done. Yes."

House kept staring at him, teetering a bit on his good leg. "You had him killed." He dropped his head, as if the idea was too much to take in all at once. He chuffed out a breath, then suddenly moved in a blur, reaching out to grab Masters by the lapels, trying to get his maimed fingers to grip and pull the man up. "You had him killed? Just like that?!" He was yelling, or trying to -- it sounded like bones were cracking in his throat. _"You fucking sonuvabitch, couldn't you have done it three years sooner?!" _He was shaking the man as Wilson and Clarence ran to him to pull him off. "A woman died for _no reason_, an _innocent woman _--"

"House!" Cuddy jumped up to intervene just as Wilson and Clarence grabbed House's arms, catching him as his legs gave way.

Masters started to reach out as House collapsed, alarmed by the spectacle playing out.

Wilson caught a glimpse of the movement out of the corner of his eye. "Don't hurt him," he hissed warningly at the billionaire, misinterpreting Masters' intent. Clarence got both arms wrapped around his former patient and half-dragged, half-carried House to the Eames chair.

Cuddy felt her heart racing. "Mr. Masters --" She saw Wilson bending over House, talking to him softly, as Clarence sat by him, hands on the thin shoulders in a gesture of reassurance rather than restraint. He used his large body to shield House from the others' view. "Are you all right?" House was being taken care of, but Masters had probably had a heart attack. All House needed was to piss off another wealthy, powerful man.

"I'm fine, Dr. Cuddy," Masters said gently.

"I'm so sorry." She took her gaze from Masters' stricken face to glance toward House again, worried. "Dr. House has been through so much, the shock --"

Masters raised a hand. "No need to apologize." His voice was quiet and weighted with sorrow. "I think I can understand why he'd be a bit riled." 

Wilson helped Clarence get House's legs up on the footrest, then felt for House's pulse at his neck. House was shuddering violently and gasping for breath, a reaction to the sudden overload of physical and emotional stress. His pulse was way too fast. Pulling up a chair, Wilson let Clarence hold House, keep him from instinctively curling up in a ball. "House, it's okay, calm down now ..." Wilson glanced over at his colleague. "Lisa, pour a drink for him, will you?" She nodded and got up. Turning back to House, he spoke soothingly. "It's okay now. It's okay. Can you talk to me? Can you breathe all right?"

House's eyes were closed, his face alarmingly pale. "She didn't have to die," he said between gasps for breath. He'd blown out his voice from the shouting; all that was left was a gravelly whisper. "No reason ... she had to ... suffer ... die ..."

Cuddy saw Masters turn his face away, but not before she caught the shine in his eyes.

"House, I want you to just concentrate on deep, even breaths." Wilson found himself holding House's hand and reminded himself not to grip too hard. Cuddy came over with a couple fingers of scotch in a glass, and Wilson took it from her. "New doctor's orders. Drink this," he said, holding the glass to House's lips.

When he'd swallowed the scotch, House rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and nodded slightly. Wilson checked House's pulse. "Okay, just lay back and try to relax. _Breathe_, House."

"Masters? Is he still here?"

Wilson realized House couldn't see around Clarence's massive shoulders, and once again appreciated the big nurse's instincts. "Yeah, he's here."

Closing his eyes, trying to breathe evenly, House whispered, "He'd better do some talking."

Wilson nodded. "I think he knows that."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Cuddy had gotten a cup of water for House, and refreshed hers and Masters' drinks as they gave House time to calm down.

After a few minutes House was limp in the chair, muscles still trembling from the rush of adrenaline, breathing slowed to near normal. With his eyes he indicated for Clarence to move a bit, so he could see Masters.

"Start talking," he growled hoarsely.

Masters nodded and squared his slumping shoulders. "That's why I'm here, Dr. House." He took a sip of the fine scotch, then set down the glass and cleared his throat. "Robert Thompson was my cousin, him and his brother William, my Mom's brother's children. I guess I was about 7 when they came to live with us. He was 8, Will was 3. Their folks died in a fire that burned down their house, so my parents took them in. Wanted to adopt the both of them, but Robbie said no. Said he was a Thompson and planned on staying one."

With a sigh, Masters rubbed his forehead. "His father had been a Methodist minister, nice enough guy, but a minister's family is practically raised in the church, you know? Even after he came to live with us, Robbie read his Bible and said his prayers."

House began to cough. Wilson reached for him, then realized that House was laughing.

"You're trying to tell me --" House was pushing to make his voice loud enough for Masters to hear "-- that Thompson was a _godly_ man?"

Masters held up his hands. "Robbie had lost his parents, and that's a hard thing for a kid. I think Robbie was trying to work out why God had taken his folks. Anyway, they lived with us, Robbie went to school with me. I never did get all that close to him. He had a ... a hard streak. Never opened up to anyone, 'cept maybe his brother, I guess. His brother was all the family he had left, and he was very protective of Will. Doted on him. A couple years after he came to live with us, Will caught the scarlet fever and died." Masters gestured helplessly. "And that was pretty much it for Robbie. He clammed up, closed up, and something in him just turned mean. He talked to me only once, after the funeral. Said God tests people, to see how they handle things. He said it wasn't fair, though, 'cause he couldn't fight fire or fevers. But he said he'd never lose another person he cared about. I took that to mean he'd never let himself care about anyone again."

"When I finished high school I found work with a local construction company, and Robbie tagged along and got himself hired too. We were young, strong boys, willing to work. Then one day the owner of the company, name of Phil Simmons, pulled us into his office. Said an inspector was due onsite at one of his projects, and he wanted me and Robbie to be there and 'lean' on the guy if we had to." He sat back with a disgusted snort. "I was dumb, I admit it. I didn't know my boss was involved in such things. But Robbie's eyes lit up like he was a kid at the county fair. We went out to meet the inspector, and it was Robbie who knew what to say to him. Hints and veiled threats and such. The project got a pass from the inspector, and it wasn't long before the boss set us on another guy he wanted to strong-arm."

He glanced at the faces watching him and shook his head sadly. "Like I said, I was dumb. Most of the guys we were supposed to intimidate just gave in, but then there was one we had to rough up a little. It made me sick to do it, and I quit my job the next day. I'm no saint, I'll tell you, but bullies are cowards, and I'm not a coward, neither. So I up and left. By then I'd met some people, made a few connections. Saved some money. Me and another guy started our own small business, and for a while I didn't see hide nor hair of Robbie.

"My company did pretty good. Eventually I bought out my partner. I was going to college, learning how to run a business. It was probably four years later I heard from Robbie again. He'd stayed working for Simmons, got to be his right-hand man. Turns out Phil Simmons was under investigation, racketeering or something, and that's why Robbie was leaving. Now he wanted to set up his own business, and asked me for a loan. I asked him how he planned to run it, 'cause if he was going to be another Phil Simmons, I wasn't going to have any part of it." Masters shook his head. "Robbie called me naive. Said Simmons was an idiot, which was why he got caught. I told him to forget it. Said, 'go to a bank or save it up yourself, like I did.' But he said if I didn't loan him money he'd tell the investigators I used to strong-arm for Simmons." With a snort, Masters spread his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. "I told him that was purely stupid, 'cause I'd just incriminate Robbie too if he tried that. That's when Robbie just smiled." Masters looked down and clasped his hands. "He said, 'You've got more to lose.' And I realized it was all just a game to him."

"You gave him the money," Wilson murmured. The older man blinked at him.

"Hell yes. Told him to take it and get out. If I never saw him again I'd count it as money well spent." With a sigh, Masters scrubbed a hand over his face. "A long, long time passed. I made a name for myself, started taking on some big projects, making big money. Married, settled down, had a family. In fact I damn near forgot about Robbie. Oh, I'd got word that he'd set up his own business, offshore interests and exports or something. I'd heard he'd gotten married, was doing pretty well for himself. And there were rumors that he was involved in ... well, he ran with a rough crowd. Mobsters, thugs."

The look on House's face kept Masters from meeting his eyes. He met Wilson's gaze instead. "Then his daughter died. I wasn't invited to the funeral. I would've gone anyway, but I didn't know where it was being held. A few weeks later Robbie came calling again. Wanted more money. He was dressed to the nines, pulled up in a limo. Clearly not hurting for cash, if you get my point. I told him I'd washed my hands of him and not to let the doorknob hit him in the ass on his way out. He laughed at me."

Masters stared at the floor a moment, aware of the eyes on him. "Truth is, he blackmailed me. I'd rather not dredge it all up again, but Dr. House, I owe you the whole story." He still hesitated, clearly unwilling to part with this information. Moving slowly, he stood up and paced to the windows behind House's desk as if he didn't want to face his audience. "There was a time -- _one _time -- when I was still just a kid, I cheated on my wife. She didn't know. Still doesn't. I'd do anything to go back and change what I did, but life just don't work that way. Robbie said he had pictures." The billionaire flushed slightly. "It had been damn near twenty years ago, and the bastard had been keeping tabs on me all my life, sittin' on those photos, just waiting for an opportunity to use'em against me. I told him he'd have to show me these so-called photos, and I'll be damned, he did just that."

With a helpless shrug, Masters shook his head. "I love my wife. Wouldn't hurt her or my kids for anything in the world. So I paid him off." He turned slowly to look at the others. "And as soon as Robbie high-tailed it out of my office, I called some people to start checking him out. I wanted to find those negatives and any copies he'd made and get that weapon out of his hands.

"Over and over again he demanded money through the next few years, in increasing amounts. I swear I never knew what it was for. The people I'd hired kept digging. It was hard work -- Robbie knew how to cover his tracks. Finally they found those negatives ... and a whole lot more besides." Looking drained, Masters paced back to the portable bar and reached for his glass of scotch. "When I'd learned what he was doing ... he had plenty of other blackmail schemes, a lot of shady business deals, well, I knew he was hurting people that way. But when I found out that he'd killed a woman, and he had Dr. House in prison and suffering ... I paid a man to find Robbie and kill him. He was a sick human being, and I don't regret it for a second."

He was quiet a moment, lost in thought, then focused his gaze on House. "When I learned about you, Dr. House, I realized you'd been caught up in Robbie's snare. He'd sworn to himself that he'd never lose anyone he loved again, and when his daughter died he decided you were the one responsible. I felt you deserved some explanation for what happened, at least the little that I know about it. If I'd known what was being done to you, or that that young lady doctor's life was in danger, I'd have acted much sooner. I'd've known it was urgent. But I swear to you, I didn't know."

House managed to meet the man's eyes for several seconds. "And that's it? All this .. the money, meeting with me here ... was to tell me this?"

Masters looked puzzled. "I don't rightly know what else I can do for you, doctor. I wanted you to know what I could tell you about Robert Thompson. The money's certainly not meant as an insult. I wanted something good to come from all this, to pay back what you and Dr. Cameron suffered because of him."

"Is it guilt?" House's forced whisper was painful to hear. "He was blackmailing you. You could've had Thompson whacked just for that, but you held off until you found out just how much of a bastard he really was."

"House --" Wilson murmured, even as Cuddy stood up, her expression darkening.

Masters held up a hand to quiet them, even though he looked almost sick with guilt and regret. "Maybe you're right, Dr. House. But what else can I do? The past is past. No one can change it."

House braced one hand on Clarence's shoulder and sat up, moving his legs to get his feet on the floor. Between Wilson and Clarence's help, he managed to stand up and look Masters in the eye. "You want to make amends, Mr. Masters? Quiet your guilty conscience? Then find the man Thompson hired. The lawyer. I want his ass on death row."


	31. Chapter 29

"Are you sure you really want this?"

The eyes that slowly opened to meet Wilson's were bloodshot and underscored by dark circles.

Cuddy had ushered Masters out 30 minutes ago. Clarence had quietly closed the window blinds to darken the room. He and Wilson had talked quietly for a time, then the big man had gently squeezed House's shoulder and left to head back to Baltimore.

Wilson had stayed, silent, while House rested uneasily in his chair. The diagnostics team would return from their extended lunch soon, and House was in no shape to deal with them. He'd used up his meager physical and emotional reserves with Masters, and he had nothing left. His voice was gone, too.

Cuddy had sent her assistant to bring hot tea, and Wilson had browbeaten House into drinking some to ease his aching throat.

"Here." Wilson held out a medicine vial. "Your afternoon pick-me-up. Vicodin, supplements, a muscle relaxant. Think you can swallow them?"

House nodded and reached for the vial.

"One at a time," Wilson warned him. "With the tea. Don't even think about dry-swallowing."

During the months of House's dissociative state, there had been plenty of times he'd strained his voice past the breaking point. Wilson had, in those days, become somewhat accustomed to hearing House's shouting and howls of fear and rage. What he'd never been able to get used to was the grotesque dry keen of a man with no voice trying to scream.

He never wanted to hear that sound again.

The pills went down with a series of grimaces, caused by both House's painful throat and the tea, which he hated.

"I mean, if Masters does find this guy and renditions him to the States ... you'll have to testify against him. Tell your story in court, again." Wilson shook his head. "It would be a nightmare for you."

The hard stare House was giving him was response enough.

"God, you're a stubborn ass," Wilson growled at him, frustrated. He felt like throwing his own coffee mug across the room but didn't want to take the chance of spooking House. He buried his face in his hands for a moment. "Okay, here's what's gonna happen. I'm going to order a blood draw kit. We'll test for the ulcer. And I'm going to have a portable X-ray machine brought over to see if we need to reset your finger. Then I'm taking you home. No, stop making faces, I'm _telling _you, not asking."

A low murmur of voices filtered through the conference room door. The team was back from lunch. Wilson stood up. "Stay there," he told his friend. "Don't go anywhere." He went into the conference room and surveyed House's team. "Guys, need a favor. Can someone get me a blood draw kit and a portable X-ray machine?"

Three faces swiveled toward him with growing alarm.

"No, no --" Wilson waved his hands at them. "Nothing's wrong. I want to X-ray House's broken finger and run a test for H-pylorii. That's all."

Foreman looked at him thoughtfully. "What was this meeting all about, Dr. Wilson? What's going on that we --" he indicated Chase and Devi -- "had to disappear for a while?"

Rajghatta spoke up. "Dr. Cuddy said something about a big donation to the hospital. She wants us to keep quiet about it until she makes a public announcement tomorrow."

"It's none of our business, Foreman," Chase said. He'd taken off his suit jacket and was donning his lab coat. He glanced at Wilson. "I'll go get the kit and the X-ray."

Foreman scowled after Chase's retreating back, then looked at Wilson again, waiting for an answer.

Wilson refused to get sucked into explaining. "It's complicated. Don't worry about it. Is there any patient info you want me to relay to House? I'm going to take him home after the X-ray."

"Tell Dr. House that Mrs. Sterling is improving rapidly," Devi said. "Carrig is holding his own while we're waiting for the test results, and Braddock is stable, but she had a mild seizure an hour ago. I've got her scheduled for another MRI."

Wilson nodded. "Sure. I'll tell him. Have you got a copy of the latest results he can look over?"

She got them and handed the papers to Wilson. "Here. I don't suppose you'll tell us what went on ...?"

He smiled ruefully. "If it weren't House's personal business, I would. Just know that the hospital is going to benefit tremendously."

Foreman leaned against his desk, his annoyance fading. "Dr. Wilson ... is House okay?"

Surprised, Wilson just looked at him. "Uh ... he'll be fine. He's just tired. It's been a hell of a day."

Back in House's office, Wilson shut the door firmly behind him. "Chase is getting the stuff we need. Here's some patient results. You can look 'em over tonight."

House shook his head and held out his hand for them.

"They can wait. Just rest until Chase gets back."

Wilson got an eyeroll and an impatient 'gimme' motion. With a sigh he stepped forward to hand over the files when his pager went off, startling both of them. He grabbed at it, squinting at the tiny message and swore softly. "Damn it. Jack Gerecke's in respiratory failure. House, I've gotta take care of this. We can do the X-ray tomorrow, just rest until --"

House shook his head again. "Go," he whispered.

"But --"

"Chase can do it."

"But -- you're sure?"

"Go already."

--

The light tap on his door was followed by, "It's Chase."

"Come," House croaked, hoping he could be heard through the door.

It opened and Chase backed in, pulling the portable X-ray. Stacked atop it were two sets of protective gear, a patient apron, a blood draw kit and a few other items. Once inside, Chase looked around. "Where's Wilson?"

"Paged."

Chase frowned. "What happened to your voice?"

"Cuddy says I'm a screamer." He gestured for Chase to roll the machine over to him.

With a shrug, the younger doctor obeyed. "Well, it doesn't take two people to do this. Unless you want to wait ...?"

Again, House shook his head.

Chase got busy unloading the machine and setting it up, then donned his X-ray protection suit. He noticed the extra chairs and the portable bar, but didn't comment on them. Turning on the lamp nearby he sat in the chair next to House, keeping a professional air. "Okay, let's get that splint off."

House offered his left hand.

"Wilson's good at this," Chase murmured, unwrapping the gauze and tape to get to the splint. That whole area of House's hand was swollen and bruised. The rest was mangled and misshapen.

His face carefully blank, Chase removed the splint as gently as he could. "There we go." He got up and fetched the patient apron, draping it over House's torso, then placed his boss' hand on the imaging plate.

Wincing, House pressed his fingers against the plate to still their tremor for the sake of a clear image.

Chase pressed the imaging button, then carefully turned House's hand for a different view and took another image. He called up the digital X-rays on the monitor and took a look. What he saw was a mess, a myriad of badly healed breaks and fractures in the carpals, metacarpals and phalanges. _"God," _he muttered in a combination of anger and amazement. He dropped his head slightly, waiting for the lash of House's tongue.

But his boss remained silent, perhaps too tired to feel anything. He just flicked his eyes at the monitor, mutely telling Chase to turn it toward him. After seeing what he wanted to see, House nodded.

Chase switched off the machine, carefully reached over and removed the drape from House. "I'll numb that up and get the splint back on. You saw for yourself, it should heal up as good as --" He stopped himself, shook his head. "Well, no worse, anyway." He closed his mouth then and just did his job, manipulating the ruined hand carefully. He expected House to deride his skills, claim he had a grip like an ape -- or, voiceless, to make "idiot!" faces at him. But House looked at the far wall and acted as though he felt no pain at all.

Winding the gauze as gently as he could, Chase cleared his throat softly. "House ..." Lord, he was going to make a right ass of himself, but there were things he needed to say. Better to do it now, when House had no voice to turn on him. "I never believed you did it."

The older man's laryngitic whisper sounded pained. "I confessed."

"I was confused," Chase admitted. "In shock. But it just didn't fit. Believe me, I wanted a scapegoat. Someone to hate. But I didn't hate you. I knew you didn't do it."

House was frowning at him. "But --"

Chase began taping the gauze. "It was Foreman who made it clear to me. He said you weren't a killer. That you didn't have it in you to kill anyone, much less Cameron. Not in cold blood."

_"Foreman?"_

"Yeah. Foreman." He pressed the last of the tape into place and studied his work. "Now let's draw some blood."

At that, House stirred a bit. "I'll do it." Chase had reached for the blood draw kit, and House held out his right hand.

"You'll do it? One handed? With that hand?" Chase asked pointedly. If looks could kill, he knew he'd be nothing but a puff of smoke right now. "If you want, Wilson can do it later. Or I can do it for you now." He forced himself to meet House's unhappy glare.

After a moment, the older man's gaze slid away. "Keep your mouth shut."

Chase feigned outrage. "Hey, I know all about doctor/patient confidentiality. I think I heard it mentioned in med school once."

House eyed him a moment, then nodded.

Chase helped him remove his suit coat, then rolled up the shirtsleeve. The needle went into the vein smoothly, and Chase, through force of will, had not batted an eyelash at the hash of marks that tattooed the bared arm. But his eyes crept to the seared numerals 5,2 just below the needle stick.

"Clause 5. Subsection 2."

House's harsh whisper made Chase jerk his gaze away. "Clause ...? You mean ... it was an actual contract?" Chase licked his lips. "I thought it was mostly just a list of names ..." The vial was filled. Chase withdrew the needle and pressed a cotton ball on the puncture spot. "House. I know you don't care, but I need to say this: Thank you." He took a steadying breath. "You didn't do it for me, or Foreman. But our names were on that list, too. You protected us, along with the people you do care about. So ... thank you."

He could feel those eyes on him, but he didn't have the strength to meet them. He heard House's ragged sigh.

"I didn't want ..." House had to stop when his whispery voice cracked, and he swallowed painfully, "... _anyone_ to die."

_But Cameron did anyway,_ Chase thought. It could have been any one of them. Maybe that had been Thompson's ultimate plan -- to break House totally, then kill everyone he cared about. Making a mockery of all he'd suffered to preserve.

Chase stood up and piled everything back on the wheeled machine. "I'll run your blood through the lab," he said. "Need anything?"

House shook his head no, and with a nod, Chase left, pulling the X-ray machine after him.


	32. Chapter 30

"I called ahead to have the store deliver some stuff. I know we don't have the results yet, but it's obvious the ulcer's back. No spicy or acidic foods for a while," Wilson reminded his passenger.

Slouched low, House had the seat reclined and his eyes closed as Wilson drove.

Wilson had already gotten him a prescription of Prilosec before they'd left the hospital. Three weeks of boring food loomed ahead.

"I'll fix you something for your throat. Hot lemonade and honey, with a dash of whiskey." Lightly drumming his fingers on the wheel, Wilson considered treatment plans. "Hmmm... you know you can't talk tonight. Wow. It'll be kind of ... peaceful, won't it?"

House turned his head and opened his eyes to stare coldly at Wilson, who was beginning to let his grin show. Using the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, House extended his right hand's middle finger and showed it to Wilson.

All he got for his efforts was Wilson's laugh. "Tonight I can finally tell you the story about how I landed that 10-pound bass on Lake --"

With a grunt, House leaned forward and quickly jabbed the radio on, hiking the volume. Creedence Clearwater Revival vibrated from the speakers at a level that allowed no discussion.

Still grinning, Wilson drove them home.

--

The springtime sun was warm on his back, and the cherry trees were in bloom.

At a distance, children played on the kiddie lot under the watchful eyes of their mothers or nannies.

He knew this place, although it took him a few moments for the name to swim up to his consciousness. He was sitting on a bench in the city park of Honshu. He'd used to take long walks here during the year his father had been stationed in Japan.

_That was a long time ago,_ he thought calmly. _I must be dreaming._

He wanted to look down at himself, to see who he was in this dream.

Was he whole, as he'd been before the infarction? Those were usually good dreams. These days he didn't even mind dreaming of himself as the cripple the infarction had made of him.

But if he looked down and saw himself as Thompson had left him, it wouldn't bode well for the dream's outcome.

House kept watching the toddlers in the children's lot run and laugh.

Maybe this time he could just _be_. Just sit in the warm sun and smell the perfume of the cherry blossoms. That would be nice.

For a while he got his wish, basking in the gentle warmth, comfortably sitting on his bench and watching the kids play across the green distance. _Is this what it feels like to be happy, _he mused drowsily. He wanted to stretch out on the bench and nap, but in the way of dreams he found he couldn't gather the will to move. It was okay, though. He was perfectly content just to sit.

He was trying to identify the birds' songs from the nearby trees when he sensed a presence directly behind him.

_All good things must come to an end,_ House thought. Time for the beatings to commence. "What are you waiting for?" he said to whoever was standing there.

He heard the shuffle of feet, then the person moved around the bench and sat down. No matter how hard he tried, House couldn't turn to look. He seemed to be frozen, staring straight ahead. "Dreams suck," he sighed to himself.

"Hi, House."

He drew a sharp breath, feeling his heart stumble in its rhythm.

"Oh, God..." he breathed. _This isn't happening. I don't believe in this shit._ His breath hitched again. Desperate to control himself, he covered his face with his hands.

Fingers gripped his shoulder firmly.

"House, don't. _Please _don't. It's okay. That's what I came to tell you. Everything's all right. Don't let it hurt you any more."

"_Nothing's_ all right," he groaned from behind his fingers. He could feel his eyes burning, which pissed him off. "_Nothing's_ okay. How can you say that?"

"Because it's true. I'm happy where I am... it's really good. And I'm with my husband. House, don't blame yourself. _I_ don't blame you. You've suffered too much over something you had no power to change."

The hand on his shoulder shifted, moved to encircle his back, and a face buried itself against his neck. Long hair and warm breath tickled his skin.

"It's funny how clearly I see things now. I really did care about you, you know."

His hands still covered his face, the heat of his tears cooling on his fingers. "You're not gonna haunt me, are you?"

Laughter shook the light frame that held him. "No. I promise I won't haunt you. House ... you're doing the right thing. I wanted to tell you that. You can heal people no one else can, and you're the only one who can bring that lawyer to justice. Don't give up. Don't wall yourself off and hide." Soft lips touched his forehead. "Don't be sad for me. Let yourself heal."

He swallowed roughly and wiped his eyes, then dropped his hands. The bright afterimage of her smile was all that remained as he blinked in the spring sunshine.

--

He opened his eyes and squinted at the rays of the setting sun that filtered through the blinds, warming him as he lay on the couch.

He could hear Wilson in the kitchen, feel the throb of the bruise on his hip and his broken finger. His throat felt hot and scratchy. So did his eyes.

Damn it.

He swiped at his eyes and cheeks roughly, not wanting to risk Wilson seeing. He'd go into hyper-caring mode and be all sensitive and kind for the rest of the night.

Stupid dream. Absolution doesn't count if you give it to yourself, House figured. He didn't believe in an afterlife, much less visits from dead people.

Although it had seemed so real ...

He heard Wilson's phone ring softly and the plastic click of it being opened.

"'Lo? ... Okay, no big surprise there. ... Fine. He's sleeping. What about his finger? ... Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling."

Another click, then Wilson's footsteps coming from the kitchen toward him. House looked up.

"You're awake?" Wilson noticed the sun making House squint. He ambled over to the window and began adjusting the blinds. "That was Chase. Congratulations, your ulcer's back."

House grimaced.

"On the plus side, your finger should heal up fine." Wilson plopped down on the club chair and propped his feet on the coffee table, a dish towel slung rakishly over his shoulder. "Everything go okay? With Chase?"

House gave him an _'Oh, please,' _face. "Fine. Chase is even more harmless than you are," he croaked.

Sighing, Wilson laid his head back and looked up at the ceiling. "Dinner's on."

House nodded, looking around for the brew Wilson had concocted to ease his throat. He found the mug and sipped at the now-tepid drink.

"You got a call while you were sleeping." Wilson was gazing up at the ceiling, one propped-up foot jiggling. "Actually, I got the call. On my cell phone. But it was for you, Dr. Aaron Levin, a psychiatrist at the Durham VA hospital." Wilson's heavy eyebrows lifted. "He said your Mom gave him my number."

Despite himself, House's curiosity was piqued. Maybe his father had gone AWOL, or tried to buy the farm again.

No. If either of those things had happened, his mother would have called him. She had his unlisted number. Thank God she hadn't given that number to the shrink.

Wilson watched the pale ghosts of House's thoughts play across his worn face. "Nothing's wrong," he assured him. "It's just that Levin wants to talk to you."

Frowning, House took another sip of his drink. "What the hell for?" His voice cracked like a teenager's, irritating him.

Wilson gave him a 'duh' look. "Well, at a guess, I'd say he wants your input so he can help your father."

House went back to his creaky whisper. "I don't have any input."

"You have to know your Dad better than he does. Levin only wants to talk to you, House. You won't be the one on the couch. Though God knows you need it."

They exchanged glares.

"Don't have time," House whispered. A trip to Durham and back would take hours. Now that he was working again, he had the perfect excuse.

"No problem. He said he'd come here one evening. He doesn't expect you to make the trip."

House suddenly got a sinking feeling. He narrowed his eyes at Wilson. "You set it up already."

"Yep. Thursday evening. Gives you three days to get your voice back." Wilson held up his hand to forestall the gathering storm. "House. Just meet with the guy. Let him ask his questions. Tell him whatever you want. Hell, if you play it right, maybe they'll keep your dad locked up forever."

The sarcasm in his voice was thick.

House was working up a really fearsome scowl when the oven timer dinged, depriving him of its target.

--

House washed up and changed into his sleep clothes. It was a slow process. By the time he made it back to the living room Wilson had already cleaned up after dinner and was sitting on the chair by the couch, flipping channels.

A mug of Wilson's throat remedy steamed gently on the sofa end table.

House eased himself down on the couch and tossed the crutches on the coffee table. He was warm, full, clean, languidly tired and, at the moment, nothing hurt worse than an occasional stabbing 5 on the pain scale.

He was acutely appreciative of such small comforts these days.

"How's the bruise on your hip?" Wilson switched more channels.

"Spectacular." House reached for the hot drink, taking a sip and letting it ease down his throat.

"I bet." Wilson found a channel showing 'The Maltese Falcon' and stopped to watch for a while.

After a few minutes, he said, "You know ... what if Masters _does_ find that guy?"

House blinked awake from his doze. "Huh? So?"

Tapping the remote lightly against his lower lip, Wilson thought for a moment. "We need to be ready. Have a game plan in place."

The thought of what might actually happen if that psycho lawyer were found and hauled back to the country was one House would be happy to put off pondering. But once Wilson got an idea in his head, he would pursue it doggedly.

"I'll call your lawyer tomorrow. You remember him, right? John Samuels?"

The memory was pretty vague. House sort of recalled having a lawyer for the trial that overturned his murder conviction, but he'd been barely alive and even less sane through most of that. Not to mention that the proceedings had ended with his flashy swan dive into la-la land.

Wilson kept talking. "Yeah, he'll want to get everything ready. Just in case. Are you okay with that?"

It was the only way to see that son of a bitch pay for what he'd done. No real choice. "Yeah. Sure." When he closed his eyes again, he remembered the scent of the cherry blossoms.


	33. Chapter 31

**A/N: For all those people who have been so patient -- thank you! Real life is such an obstacle to writing, at times, but I apologize for keeping you waiting so long.** - Priority

Foreman set the chart in the outbox and reached for another. The clinic was busy for a Wednesday morning, and he'd pulled first shift today. He and the other two doctors on first shift continually passed each other as they moved between exam rooms and the nurses' station, seeing one patient only to have two more file into the waiting room. Some days Foreman felt like Sisyphus, condemned to an impossible task.

Opening the door to exam room 3, Foreman nodded at the man sitting on the table and opened his chart. "Good morning, Mr. Rickard. You're here for ..." he glanced over the form, "... an employee physical?"

The patient nodded. Foreman absently noted the man was a little thin, mid-forties, wiry and watchful. The chart indicated that the man was 43 and gave his name as Ken Rickard, with a home address of North Princeton Court. Foreman recognized it as the name of a halfway house. Rickard's previous address was the state prison.

On the surface, Foreman smiled his professional smile, efficiently checking blood pressure, ENT, lungs and reflexes. Another part of his mind was bent on remembering to mark the patient's lab orders for precautions. Prison inmates ran a high risk for TB, hepatitis and HIV. He vaguely noticed feeling a strange sense of detachment from what he was doing.

"We're almost done here, Mr. Rickard." He scribbled the lab orders, then set down the chart and reached for the glove dispenser. "I need to ask you to drop your pants and underwear, and bend over the table."

The man's eyes widened. "What?"

"Just a prostate check. Looks like your employer requires it."

The thin man shook his head. "No. No way." He slid off the table and sidled around the far side of it.

Foreman felt his stomach twist. "It's... it's okay, Mr. Rickard. It's a common test. It won't hurt." The look of distress in the patient's eyes had a visceral effect on him. He reached out a hand to find the countertop, needing to feel something solid, an anchor against a sudden strange lightheadedness.

"You ain't doing any such thing," Rickard growled, but his eyes were more anxious than angry.

In his years of medical practice, especially with clinic work, Foreman had seen a lot. Prostate exams were just part of the job. Only right now, he really didn't want to do this. He felt cold and his insides were knotted.

"Mr. Rickard, it's okay. Would you prefer a female doctor to examine you?"

"Well, _you_ aren't gonna touch me," Rickard grunted, sweat sheening his forehead.

Nodding, Foreman moved toward the door. "If you'll just wait here..." He left the little room. Both of the other doctors on first shift were men. As if on autopilot, he walked to Cuddy's office, barely noticing the assistant waving him to go on in. When Cuddy looked up, he said, "I need a female doctor to cover a patient who's refusing a prostate check. Exam room 3."

He didn't remember waiting to see if she nodded. Foreman turned and calmly walked away, moving with measured, even strides until he was in the nearest men's restroom, where he threw up his breakfast.

--

Devi stood at the foot of Jake Carrig's bed and took a moment to watch the man sleep. Although Carrig was Foreman's patient, she was the cardiologist on the team. She had been keeping close tabs on the man's condition, and now his heart was no longer functioning well enough to sustain him.

The heart damage was not directly due to his illness, so there was a chance the transplant committee would OK him for a new heart. She'd have to tell Foreman, and get Carrig's name on the transplant list. And of course, Dr. House needed to be informed, too.

A glance at the monitors showed the patient's slowly worsening condition. With a sigh, Devi picked up his chart and went out into the hall. Looking up, she glanced at the nurses' station and saw one of the transplant surgeons there, chatting with the nurses.

Moving quietly, she approached him.

"Dr. Pevey? May I speak with you a moment?"

Pevey turned to her with a pleasant smile. "Yes?"

"Hello, I'm Dr. Rajghatta. I have a patient in heart failure, and if possible we're going to try to get him on the transplant list. I'm a cardiologist, and I was wondering ... if we get the OK for the transplant, could I get permission to observe as part of the surgical team? I'm not sure of the rules here."

Pevey shrugged. "Depends on the surgeon. Some are OK with it. Others don't like a crowd." He leaned against the counter and smiled at her. "I know most of the cardiology staff. Don't remember hearing your name."

"No, I'm not a member of that department here. I'm a diagnostics fellow. The patient is Dr. Foreman's."

Pevey's smile faded. "Diagnostics? House?" He took a step into her personal space, his eyes narrowed. "I told that bastard not to come to me for any favors. That includes the people who work for him."

Devi was caught off-guard. "I ... I'm not asking you for a favor, Dr. Pevey. I just wanted to know if there was a standing policy. And really, I don't think your attitude is very professional."

"Professional?" He chuckled humorlessly. "Right. You work for that maniac and call me unprofessional." He cocked a forefinger at her. "Listen, I've got some advice for you. Working for House is only going to ruin you. Those other two guys couldn't get a job at any hospital in the nation because everyone knows they worked for House. He's reckless, he's crazy, and he destroys everyone around him. Mark what I say." With that, Pevey turned and stalked away down the hall.

--

She was still steaming when she got to the diagnostics office. It was nearly 10 o'clock, and Wilson had left a message for the team to expect House in around that time.

Chase was already there, at the computer on his desk. Devi noted that he'd already drawn the blinds to the conference room. Nodding at him, she went to her own desk, slapping Carrig's file down and ignoring Chase's questioning look.

Before he could say anything the hall door opened and Foreman came in, a distinctly gray shade under his dark skin.

She blinked at him. "Eric? Are you --"

"I'm fine," he muttered tersely.

Chase raised both eyebrows and decided to keep his mouth shut. Devi, usually so even-tempered, had come in angry about something. And Foreman looked sick and distracted. Neither seemed eager to discuss it, though.

The sound of crutches from the hallway drew his attention, and he quickly finished his e-mail, gathered up patient files and moved to the conference table. Foreman seemed frozen in place a moment, then slowly followed suit.

Chase was pouring a cup of coffee when House came through the adjoining door from his office. He swept them with a glance as he hobbled to his chair.

Setting the coffee down in front of House, Chase took his place at the table and shuffled the folders.

"What the hell's going on?" House's voice was barely above a whisper, but his gaze was as sharp as ever, measuring each of them in turn. "Raja, you're pissed off. Foreman, you look like you're gonna hurl, and Chase -- well, you don't know any more than I do."

Foreman opened a patient file and studied it intently. He hadn't once raised his eyes to look at House. "Touch of the flu."

The blue eyes flicked to Devi.

Uncomfortable, she cleared her throat. "It's nothing. Just a bad morning."

Clearly unsatisfied with their answers, he gave each of them a long look before opening the top file. "Carrig. Status?"

--

The differentials for each patient were thorough. Foreman listened, spoke when he needed to speak, but he found himself struggling to concentrate. His brain seemed to just want to shut off.

Finally they were done. Foreman started to stand when House's cracked voice said, "Raja, Foreman, stay where you are. Chase, get started."

With a nod, Chase gathered his folders and left the room.

House looked at Devi. "What's going on?"

"It's ... it's really nothing," she started to say, but stopped when he shook his head.

"Just tell me."

Brushing back a stray lock of hair, she let out a soft sigh. "If Carrig receives a donor heart, I want to observe the transplant surgery in the OR. I talked to one of the transplant surgeons, to see if he thought there would be any problem with it."

House blinked, his expression unreadable. "Pevey."

Surprised, she nodded. "He really doesn't like you, Dr. House. Or any of us who work for you. He made it clear that if he's the surgeon, he won't allow me to observe."

After a couple of moments House jerked a small nod. "You can go."

When the door shut behind her, Foreman felt House's gaze turn to him. He didn't lift his eyes to meet it.

"Touch of the flu?" The whispery voice, though calm, was merciless. "No sign of fever. You don't move like you have any muscle aches."

Foreman shrugged. "Maybe it's the take-out I had last night. I'm fine."

"Huh. Now, I know I'm not the stunner I used to be, but you haven't looked at me once since I came in the room. If you have a problem with me, then either tell me what it is or deal with it, because I need you at the top of your game."

Clenching his teeth, Foreman nodded and stood up. House had a point -- working with patients was a bad idea until he could think more clearly. He felt House's eyes follow him out the door.

--

It was quiet and dim in his office. House sat at his desk, head in his hands, trying to ignore the assorted aches and pains of his dysfunctional body and concentrate on the file. All his patients were improving to some degree, except for Carrig. The man's heart was failing despite their best efforts.

All the clues were in the file in front of him. The answer had to be there.

Unless ...

A sudden piercing pain from his right leg made him gasp, "Mother _fuck_ --" as the burning sensation rose to a crescendo, then began to ebb. Tears prickled his eyes from the intensity of it.

When he could move again, he drew a few deep breaths and looked at his watch. Half an hour until his next dose of pain meds, but what the hell. From his jacket pocket he pulled out the vial and fumbled the cap open. Inside was his cocktail of meds. He'd take the Vicodin now and the others at the usual time.

Washing the pill down with a swallow of coffee, he forced his train of thought back to his dying patient. Everything they were doing for Carrig was based on the information contained in the file. And what they were doing wasn't working.

What if they didn't have all the clues?

House considered. Foreman had taken a thorough history, and Chase had confessed to searching the man's home and office when Carrig had been admitted. Maybe there was someplace else that needed to be searched. And maybe a closer look at family and friends was in order.

A knock at his door was followed by Cuddy's voice. "House? It's me."

"Come in." He wondered if Wilson had briefed Cuddy and his team on 'House Door Etiquette 101,' because they all announced themselves and waited to be invited to come inside. House appreciated the courtesy far more than he'd ever admit.

Cuddy came in and smiled at him as she sat down across from his desk. Her taste still ran to feminine power suits, he noted, and the intervening years hadn't touched her slim figure or knockout legs.

"Morning, House. Can you talk today?"

"Some."

She tried not to look at the long scar across his throat. Lisa didn't know how he'd gotten that -- during long phases of his court testimony, the judge had cleared the gallery. She remembered sitting silently with Wilson in the hallway outside the courtroom, both of them lost in the misery of imagining what the fragile husk of Gregory House was having to admit to the judge, jury and lawyers.

Deliberately Cuddy pushed those thoughts away. House was far too good at reading people. He if saw the faintest trace of her feelings on her face, he'd throw her out of his office.

"Good. I wanted to tell you that Masters made good on his word. This hospital now has enough money to buy a small nation." She caught his flickering glance. "So. What do we do with it?"

He shrugged. "Whatever you want. I'm sure the board has plenty of ideas."

"Masters stipulated that the decision is yours." She waved a hand. "House, anything you pick will be fine. With all that money, we'll have the best whatever-you-want in the country."

He studied the top of his desk, remembering something Wilson had said. "Maybe ..." Cuddy was looking at him, maddeningly patient. "Wilson thought ... it should be a research and treatment facility for chronic pain patients." House tried not to wince. He saw the understanding and sympathy shadow her features, but no more than a hint. Thank God she wasn't bursting into tears.

With a nod, she shifted in her chair. "And the other wing? Dr. Cameron's?"

For a fleeting second he recalled the scent of cherry blossoms. "Pediatric oncology."

Now Cuddy's eyes did begin to mist. She was as much a sucker for sick kids as Cameron was. "I'll tell the board, so they can begin planning." But she didn't get up to leave, instead letting her gaze search his face. "Greg ..." The tone of her voice, so quiet and sad, made him look at her. "Is this us, now? Brief chats about hospital business, like a couple of strangers?"

The question surprised him. "Well, what else is there?"

"We used to be more than this." She gestured, as if she could illuminate for him the distance she felt. "We'd fight. Yell. We'd compete. You'd make inappropriate comments. We would ... flirt."

House felt his surprise melt away, but nothing took its place. He felt so hollow he was surprised his voice didn't echo. "That was when I had something to offer."

She looked at him in shock, momentarily speechless.

He met her gaze for a brief second, then dropped his eyes to the medical text he'd been reading when she'd come in. "Yeah, who am I kidding," he muttered under his breath, his overtaxed voice starting to fail. "I never had anything to offer."

It was a relief when she slowly stood up. Let her mull it over, work out that he was right, on her own time. He didn't want to witness the inevitable tears.

There was only a second to recognize her hand in his field of vision as she clapped shut the book he was staring at.

"Bullshit," she said firmly. Her eyes were blazing, but her features were composed. "You have a great deal to offer, then and now, if you weren't so damn petrified of getting close to someone. This is nothing new, House. What happened to you stole four years of your life. Don't let it steal everything."

He stared up at her, shocked by the intensity of her gaze. "It already has," he told her. "All I have left is my work, and we don't even know if I can still do _that_."

Lisa shook her head. "You're recovering. You'll get your life back, a piece at a time. No one expects it to happen overnight. Just ... keep that in mind. Maybe emotions don't fit into your rational world view, Greg, but we need them as much as we need to breathe. Don't let yours die." A blink released a rogue tear that she hastily wiped away. "I've missed you. It's a miracle you're alive, that you're here, that I'm talking to you right now." She touched his hand lightly. "It's like we've been given a second chance. All of us. Don't push away the people who care about you."

She straightened, flashed him a genuine smile, and left his office before any more tears could betray her.

--

He'd wandered the hospital like a phantom in a lab coat, walking with no destination in mind, hardly even thinking. Maybe it _was_ the flu. He remembered being outside for a while, walking around the hospital campus in an effort to clear his head. Now he was in an elevator, pressing the button marked '3'. When the doors opened he stepped out and took the right-hand hallway, looking for the familiar door. He hadn't been here for quite a while, but he found the office he wanted. The door was ajar, so he knocked and stuck his head inside. "Catherine? Got a minute?"

The woman behind the desk smiled and stood up. "Eric! Come on in. I thought I might be getting a visit from you one of these days." She gestured him in.

He didn't sit, though, instead pacing to the window, which overlooked the front grounds.

The psychiatrist watched him thoughtfully. "I heard Dr. House is back. That he's heading up your department again. Talk to me, Eric. Tell me what's going on."

He turned toward her and, hesitantly, began trying to find the words.


	34. Chapter 32

The words weren't easy to find. "Yeah. House is back at work. It's ... hard for him." Foreman shook his head. "Got to be."

"And hard for you?" The psychiatrist's usual frank gaze was tinged with sympathy.

Foreman felt his shoulders slump. "For everyone."

She nodded, then cocked her head slightly. "Easier if he'd just stayed home," she suggested.

"I didn't say that, Catherine. House needs this. It's probably the only thing in his life now that has meaning. And he's still got the finest diagnostic mind in the medical field today."

She looked at her patient, taking in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes looked out her office window without really seeing. "That's what you said when Dr. Cameron was killed and House was arrested. You said, 'House is capable of just about anything — but not murder.' You told me it was ironic that they were going to put away a man for a murder he didn't commit, and scores of people would die because he wouldn't be here to diagnose them. To save them."

He looked at her over his shoulder. "And I was right. He didn't kill Cameron. And people did die while he was gone." Foreman rubbed his eyes wearily before turning to look out the window again. "I did everything I could. Chase too. But we're just not House. We diagnosed some of them. Not as many as House could have saved."

She gave him a wry smile. "That's not a failure on your part. I've heard the scuttlebutt, Eric. You and Chase are top-notch diagnosticians." She got up and crossed the room to get her jacket from the coat rack by the door. "Let's take a walk."

ooooooOOOOOOOooooooooo

"I used to think people were simple."

They sat at a picnic table in the jogging park near the hospital's campus, enjoying the mild sunshine and soft breeze.

Being outside seemed to do Foreman some good. He sat with his elbows atop the rough wooden table, his chin propped on a fist as he watched the ducks paddle around the park's artificial lagoon.

"Easy to figure out, to know what makes them tick. We're all motivated by the same things. Money. Sex. Power. Revenge. Or just meeting our basic needs."

Catherine let him talk, listening patiently.

"It sort of all comes down to Darwin, I guess. We all do what we think is in our best self-interest. To me, House epitomized that. He was selfish, self-absorbed, unfeeling, arrogant, impulsive ..." Foreman's voice faded out.

Catherine saw his gaze unfocus as his thoughts turned inward.

"He ... he really was all those things. It doesn't make any sense why he ... why he would ..."

It was evident in his eyes, in the tight line of his lips, how hard he was trying to grasp for an explanation. This was the heart of his confusion, the unanswered question that threatened the foundations of his world view.

She had met Eric Foreman when the hospital's Dean of Medicine had ordered the two remaining members of Dr. House's team to get counseling on the news of their colleague's violent death and their boss' arrest. Foreman had spoken with her over several sessions back then.

And when the news of Greg House's innocence came out, followed by the horror stories of his treatment at Thompson's hands, Foreman had, to his own surprise, come back for more help.

She and the other psych staff at PPTH had counseled quite a few of the hospital's personnel during those two events — the second one even moreso than the first. The idea of torture was deeply, psychologically disturbing to human beings with a conscience. Foreman had been the only patient of hers to believe in House's innocence even when he was first arrested. The other patients who came to her had to deal with their guilt at having believed the worst of their colleague.

And all of her House-related patients had some form of survivor's guilt. It was inherent in such cases of torture, that the bystanders feel guilty and ashamed for their ignorance of what was happening, and therefore doing nothing to stop the atrocity.

"Eric." She waited until his eyes focused on hers. "You were dealing with this same question when the truth came out about Robert Thompson. I'm not surprised it's surfacing again so strongly now. House is back at work. You have to deal with him in the flesh, not just your memory of him. And the trauma he's been through complicates everything. I wouldn't be surprised if he's trying to act like nothing's changed. Like he's still the same as he always was. It's what people do. We want what's familiar, what's comfortable." Catherine gestured vaguely. "When something this ... this shocking happens, no one wants to deal with it."

Foreman looked at her intently, his brown eyes searching hers. "What do I do, Catherine? How am I _supposed_ to deal with it? How am I supposed to work with him?" He shook his head. "I don't know what to do or say. Every time I see him, his face, his hands ... I remember I owe him my life. I feel guilty. Helpless. It's starting to affect my work."

She quirked a smile. "Darwin was a moron. If all that motivated us was our base desires, we'd all be psychopaths. Most people have some capacity for self-sacrifice, Eric. Even House. It's what makes us human." Turning to look at the rippling water, she squinted against the glint of the sun. "Try to remember that you had no part in this. No choice. A lot of other names were on that contract besides yours. It all happened without your knowledge or say-so."

The look on his face told her he was listening to her. Hoping to reach him, she went on, "Of course you feel like you owe your life to House. In some ways it's true. But you were never given the opportunity to fight for your own life or confront Thompson. You're not responsible for the decisions House made."

Sighing, she brushed a lock of hair from her face. "Listen, you're dealing with a lot right now. Can you take the rest of the day off? Go run or work out. Do something physical. And come see me tomorrow afternoon. Maybe I can find some answers for you."

With a rueful look Foreman stood up as she did, shaking his head. "I'll take your advice, but I doubt there are any real answers out there."

Catherine fell into step beside him as they headed back to the hospital. "I'll do my best. And by the way, I'm not Catherine Vandermeer any more. I've gone back to my maiden name. Milton."

ooooooOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo

The files of the people she'd interviewed concerning House made a fairly impressive stack on her desk. She'd skimmed them for clues, ideas, impressions. The consensus on House was surprisingly consistent: he'd been an arrogant, sarcastic bastard and an utterly brilliant diagnostician.

She longed to interview James Wilson, House's one friend and lately his caretaker. Wilson could give her such a better idea of who House was than any of her patients could.

But House wasn't her patient, and she had no right to pry. Whoever he was seeing was not at PPTH, anyway. She prayed he was seeing _someone_.

No, her patient was Dr. Foreman, and she had to find some way to help him. She'd pored over the literature on the psychology of pain and torture, on POWs and political prisoners freed from their captors, and the course of their recovery. The research had broadened her understanding, but given her few genuine answers.

She tapped a pen against the stack of folders, thinking. Really, it all came down to one thing: How did House want to be treated? That was the heart of it.

And there was only one way to find out.

Milton hesitated. It was tempting to talk to Dr. Cuddy or Dr. Wilson first, to get an idea of what to expect. How to approach House. Except there was the distinct likelihood she'd be ordered to stay away. Better not to risk that. She was a firm believer in the principle of asking forgiveness later instead of asking permission first.

She found herself on her feet and heading for the stairwell almost before she was aware of having made the decision. Her soft-soled shoes made almost no sound in the echoey stairway.

When House had been arrested, she'd been working at PPTH for about a month. She'd never met the man, but that might be an advantage, she mused. No preconceived opinions to get in the way.

Of course, she'd followed the story as avidly as everyone else. Famous doctor murders employee. Famous doctor goes to prison. Then three years later, the whole thing is resurrected and turned on its head with Robert Thompson's violent death and subsequent FBI investigation.

The whole thing was sordid and utterly fascinating, like a train wreck you couldn't look away from. She and the other shrinks on the staff — particularly those who had known House, or at least met him once — speculated endlessly on every new revelation. Opinions differed, the Freudians versus the Jungians versus the behaviorists, but they had all agreed that House was unlikely to ever recover enough to work again.

She smiled to herself. For once she'd been glad to be wrong. When the rumor of House's return had spread like wildfire through the hospital, her colleagues again found it too delicious to leave alone. And on the third day of his return, the morning the reporters had sprung their trap on House outside the hospital, a number of her fellow head-shrinkers had predicted the end of House's attempted comeback.

The press conference had really burned their butts, she recalled with a grin. It had been on a Friday, and House had come in to work the following Monday.

"Good for you," Cate had thought then. She admired backbone.

oooooOOOOOOOOOooooooo

The name on his door was easy to find, particularly since the lettering was on wood. Neither the door nor the walls of House's office were of glass. Milton immediately grasped the significance of this anomaly: privacy. The Dean and the board had gone out of their way to grant House what privacy they could.

She glanced to her left. The large conference room that also served as his team's office did have glass walls, but the blinds were pulled closed.

Privacy, again. Dr. House didn't want to be gawped at. Understandable. His team was probably catching some of the fallout, too, dealing with people's curiosity about their boss. Adding stress to an already stressful situation.

Eric Foreman was certainly feeling it. The others had to be, as well. And she might just be able to help them cope.

The thought firmed her resolve. She raised her fist to rap lightly on the door. "Dr. House?" She waited for a response, then tapped again. No answer. Pursing her lips, she flipped a mental coin. It came up heads, and she slowly opened the door.

There was no one behind the desk at the other end of the room, but then she heard a soft exhale from her right.

In the corner of the room was a lounge chair, and sprawled in it was a sleeping figure.

Her fingers tightened on the door handle as she stared. It took several long seconds for her to recognize that the man asleep in the chair actually was Dr. Gregory House.

Milton had seen old photos. She'd seen the press conference on TV. She'd expected the effects of the mental and emotional anguish to be visible, but it was the blatant physical evidence of abuse that caught her unprepared.

From her reading on the effects of torture and the psychology of both the victims and the torturers, she knew that such techniques had purpose. Inflicting pain was a method to gain information or a confession, or to coerce a victim to do the torturer's will.

Thompson's scheme with House was extraordinary because there was no ultimate goal beyond inflicting pain and misery. Thompson hadn't wanted information or a confession, or to make House do anything except submit to more pain. That very aspect of it was behind the public's shocked fascination with the story. It was what had shocked her, certainly.

But at this moment, in a very real way, she was seeing it. No attempt had been made to avoid marking House's face or hands, which meant Thompson had not been afraid of discovery. There was no fear that House would tell anyone or escape to safety. The twisted plan made House complicit in his own torture, giving him the responsibility to make sure the suffering could continue.

She was staring at the sleeping man, her mouth hanging open, when he muttered something. He shivered, swallowed, but didn't open his eyes.

Milton saw his suit jacket crumpled over the side of the chair where it had slipped off him as he slept. When he shivered again she quietly stepped forward and eased the jacket over him.

oooooOOOOOooooo

He tasted copper and salt and drifted on the edge of awareness. He was still cold, still hungry. His brain registered pain across an infinite scale. The secret to survival was to find that place where he simply didn't care.

At first, when he'd been new at this, he'd used his brain to fight the deprivation of his senses, to find some type of stimulation to help him pass the time and sublimate the misery. He would run through medical mnemonics, endless lists — the parts of a cell, the bones of the body, the names of people he'd known in school, lists of his favorite albums and books ... for a while, it had helped.

Now he just drifted. It was easier, really. Easier to just let the cold settle in his bones, let the hunger gnaw its way toward his spine. Pain was a constant. He no longer cared how long he'd been in this cell, or who the president was, or whether the people he remembered still existed, or ever had. Nothing existed. Just the dark, the cold, the hunger and the pain. Easier that way.

But something had changed. Something wonderful and secret. He hugged that secret close, kept it locked inside him so no one could take it away. He stayed silent unless ordered to speak and let no one see any sign of this tiny spark of hope.

It had started a little time ago. He had no way to measure time. Maybe it was a week, maybe a month. He'd been sitting on the floor of his cell, idly pulling on the chain that fastened his leg to the wall.

The effort did no good, of course; he didn't expect to free himself. It was just something to do, a sound to hear besides his own breathing.

That was when the arrythmia began. It hadn't lasted long. A minute or two, maybe.

But he knew what it meant.

And then he realized what _that _meant, and a wave of relief battered him so fiercely he groaned aloud, tears wetting his face.

His tormentors were slowly starving him. They'd never let it get so far along that he'd actually die from it, though. The point was to keep him in an endless misery of hunger.

But they weren't medically trained. Nor all that smart to begin with.

_He_ knew what was happening. He knew how starvation affected electrolytes and boosted adrenaline, paving the way for heart failure. The symptoms of malnutrition had begun manifesting quite a while ago — headaches, edema, decreased tolerance to cold, tinnitus, paresthesias. The arrythmia was a clear sign of how his body was failing.

And one day, maybe one day soon, his heart would just give out in the middle of a punishment. It would all be over, with no one to blame but his tormentors.

He would pray for that, if he knew how, or to whom.

The secret he harbored made it easier to just let himself drift, alone in the cold, deep dark.

He was floating in the nothingness when he felt a touch on his arm.

oooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooo


	35. Chapter 33

Cate quietly approached the sleeping man and bent down, lifting the crumpled jacket and lightly placing it over him.

Milton heard the barest hiss of indrawn breath, then the still figure exploded into motion. A sharp pain blossomed in her collarbone where his shoulder clipped her as he jackknifed upright, then she was falling backward, off balance and almost twisting her ankle as she caught herself. House was no longer in the chair. She hadn't actually seen him move, but as she recovered her balance she saw he was now wedged in the corner behind the chair, eyes closed, hands jammed under his armpits, head tucked down to his drawn-up knees.

_"Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap," _she groaned to herself, a silent mantra as she realized how badly she'd screwed up. This was a man who was programmed to expect violence, to whom any new experience, any stranger or sudden change, threatened pain and fear. She was a psychiatrist. She should have predicted this -- but she hadn't expected him to wake up.

MIlton swiftly put aside her self-recriminations. They wouldn't help here. She moved further away, giving him a large buffer zone of personal space as her thoughts raced.

He needed to know he was safe, that she wasn't a threat. She had to be as harmless and comforting as possible. Calming herself, Milton let her shoulders slump, bowing her head and folding her hands demurely, trying to make her body language submissive, her outline small.

Pitching her voice low, she spoke softly. "Dr. House? It's all right, you were shivering, I thought you were cold." _Damn it. _She might have frightened him into a psychotic break.

He stayed tightly curled, the sound of his breathing fast and harsh. The white shirt he wore hung on his thin frame.

She had to keep talking, give him her voice to focus on. "I came here to talk to you. I need your help." She saw how his muscles trembled from the shock and fear and the strain of holding that clenched position. If he'd had any broken ribs in the past that posture must have them aching, and he surely didn't have much stamina by the look of him. _Keep talking, _she reminded herself. "I know you have your own patients, but I hope you'll give me some of your time to help me."

He didn't move or otherwise indicate that he heard her, but after a moment she heard a change in his breathing. House began drawing long, steady breaths, exhaling slowly -- a breathing exercise to calm himself.

For a while there was only the sound of his labored breathing, then he slowly lifted his head to rest his cheek against the wall, eyes still closed. She didn't move or say anything. After scaring him so badly, the least she could do was be patient and give him the time he needed to recover.

Milton took the opportunity to study him. An orthopedic walking boot encased his right leg from foot to knee, indicating a fairly recent surgical procedure, and a pair of crutches leaned haphazardly against the wall near the chair he'd been napping in. The way his clothes hung on him, his lined, unshaved face and unbrushed chestnut-going-gray hair brought to mind the image of a tattered scarecrow. It didn't surprise her. This was a man plagued by evil memories during the day and terrifying dreams at night. His sleep was undoubtedly poor, his health precarious and physical pain was a given. The mental and emotional anguish she could only guess at. He was not going to worry about how he looked when surviving each day took precedence.

His eyes slowly opened, a blank stare into the middle distance. "Why're you still here?" he whispered. There was absolutely no expression, no inflection. The total lack of affect made her skin crawl.

"I wanted to talk to you, Dr. House. I really need your help."

His blank gaze eventually tracked to her face. "What do you want from me?"

Catherine kept her body language feminine and unthreatening, her voice low. "First, I want to apologize. I'm sorry I startled you. It was stupid of me." She didn't mind repeating herself. He was coming out of a nasty shock and likely hadn't heard anything she'd said previously.

House leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again, drawing steady breaths.

"I just thought ... you were cold, and ... " She remembered falling back, and ruefully rubbed her aching collarbone. "Wow. You really can move _fast_."

His mouth twitched in an expression of wry annoyance. "Survival mechanism."

Milton grinned, relieved that his eerie blankness was receding and normal emotions were coming back online. "Second, I came here for a consult. I have patients who need your help." It was important to put him back into a position of control, of being a physician who could help her and her patients. Surely he must be sick of being treated like a victim.

Staring at the ceiling, he let out another long exhale. "So who the hell are you?"

"Dr. Catherine Milton."

He slowly realized how he was sitting, jammed into the corner with his legs drawn up and his hands protected under his arms. Moving cautiously, he began to uncurl, extending his legs a bit and letting his hands rest on his hollow belly. This was just too, too perfect. As soon as this woman left his office she'd tell everyone in the hospital that Dr. Headcase had had a relapse. That he'd dived for the floor like a 1950s schoolkid in a bombing drill.

_Fuck._ He was too tired for this. Tired or not, though, he figured he'd better do something. She was staring at him with something perilously close to compassion on her face. "Thanks for the wake-up call. You can go now."

Milton ducked her head to hide a smile. _Score one for the ass. _"Without my consult?"

"Giving me a heart attack precludes your consult."

She didn't look offended or angry. If anything, there was a bemused glint in her eye. Cate gestured vaguely toward his ortho boot. "Looks like you're recuperating from surgery. Can I help you up?"

House sighed. "There's bottled water in the fridge in there --" he nodded toward the conference room. "Go get me one. And make sure it takes a couple of minutes." He'd be damned if anyone in this hospital was going to watch him crawl.

When the connecting door closed behind her, House allowed himself a heartfelt groan. The surge of adrenalin was long past, leaving him weak and shaky. And in its ebb his body strongly objected to the sudden burst of activity he'd subjected it to.

Staying on the floor was an option he was perfectly okay with, if he were alone. Unfortunately, it probably wouldn't come off as very professional if he conversed with a colleague while cowering abjectly in a corner.

He clenched his teeth and finished uncurling, letting out his breath carefully around the assorted aches. Then, slowly and carefully, House crawled to his chair, bracing his arms on the frame to lever himself up. He sank gratefully onto its cushions. Maybe he should start locking his office door, he mused. He really hadn't expected strangers to just start dropping by unannounced.

"May I come back in?" came the woman's voice from behind the conference room's door.

As tempting as it was to tell her to go away, she had his drink, and he was thirsty. "Yeah." He watched her come in, sizing her up. Milton looked to be in her thirties, until she came closer and he could see the fine lines around her eyes. Forties, then. Blond and slim, maybe 5'8" or so. Her white lab coat emphasized the athletic grace that marked her movements. An aging ski trainer or former college runner, maybe. Certainly not hard on the eyes. She held out the bottle, but he shook his head. "Open it."

Milton hid it well, he thought, watching the tiniest flicker of emotion cross her face as she realized he couldn't open the twist-top himself. She took off the cap and offered the bottle again.

He took it in both hands for a better grip.

"You swallowed."

House blinked at the non-sequitor and looked at her, then back at the drink he was holding. "Not yet."

She shook her head, frowning. "No, I mean, when I came in ... I thought you were asleep. But you swallowed. People don't swallow in their sleep. I should have realized you were ... having a flashback?"

It was a guess. She was fishing for information, and he didn't take the bait. "See what happens when you break and enter?"

Milton had moved away again, giving him room. "No, I knocked, but you didn't answer."

"For future reference, that means 'go away.' So what do you do here, Milton?"

"I'm a psychiatrist on staff."

That won her a sharp glare. "Uh huh. Couldn't resist, could you. Gotta check out the famous nutcase in his natural habitat."

She sighed, then smiled to herself. "That's not why I'm here. But really, you should put up a sign over your habitat. 'Jerkus Sarcasticus.' At least give people some warning."

House cleared his throat lightly and took a sip of water to hide his smile. The mischievous spark in her eyes was irritating him. "You're the shrink, but you need my help diagnosing your patients? Fine. I'll go out on a limb here. Your patients are either schizophrenic, neurotic, have anxiety disorders or separation issues. Glad I could help. The door's over there."

Her smile grew into a grin. "Nice try, but those aren't the patients I need help with." Moving deliberately, she turned one of the visitor chairs around to face him, sliding it a little closer before settling on it. "House, the truth is, I wouldn't bother you with this if I could do it myself."

"Appealing to my ego? Smart move."

Leaning toward him a bit, she let her hair fall across her face and gave him a mock 'come hither' look. "I'll stroke your ego all day if it'll get you to help me," she replied in a bad Mae West drawl. At his dumbfounded stare, Catherine waggled her eyebrows. "_If_ you know what I mean. Will you hear me out?"

House was still staring at her, surprised by her bantering innuendo, but he quickly collected himself. "You know, I usually don't put out on the first date."

"But for the sake of my patients I hope you'll sully your reputation. Just this once." Milton knew she had his attention now. Softening her voice, she tried to meet his eyes. "Dr. House, you've been through an ordeal that's almost impossible for anyone to comprehend. You've had no chance -- and certainly no reason -- to look at its effects on other people."

She noticed his gaze was on the bottle he held, his expression closing off. She hadn't warned him that her consult involved his personal history. Her mention of it stirred dark memories in him, feelings he wouldn't let show.

"But what happened to you did affect a lot of people. Not just your friends and family, but your colleagues and acquaintances, too."

"Ridiculous," he muttered.

"It isn't ridiculous," she told him gently.

"If people had any reaction at all, it was to Cameron's death." His eyes flashed to her face for only a second, to see if she recognized the name. "That would have been hard for them to accept. If anyone felt anything about me, it was probably vindication. Greg House behind bars, right where he always belonged."

She'd heard plenty of those sentiments when House had been arrested, both from her patients and from the hospital grapevine. Milton couldn't imagine this man being so vilified back then.

"Dr. House, no one here had any idea what was going on until after Robert Thompson was shot. It was ... it was an indescribable shock to everyone when it was revealed what you'd been caught up in. More people came to me for counseling after that than when you were first arrested." She tried unsuccessfully to meet his eyes, so she leaned forward slightly to emphasize her words. "Survivor's guilt, Dr. House."

Wordlessly, he shook his head.

She sighed. "Look. I don't know if you're prepared to talk about this, but I think you need to know. There are so many ramifications to torture -- not just for the victim, and not just for the perpetrators. Bystanders are affected, too. They have to deal with the fact that this terrible thing happened right under their noses. That because they had no knowledge of what was happening, they didn't know to do anything to stop it. The atrocity you lived through was allowed to happen because the people around you were blind to it." She opened her hand, a small gesture to beg him to listen. "They see _you_, House, and put themselves in your place. They would have wanted someone to notice the signs, to ask questions, find out about their suffering and put an end to it."

House was managing to keep his expression composed, but his lips were pressed in a thin line that whitened the scars around his mouth. "So? Tell them the world sucks, and crap happens. Then tell them to get over it. Not much I can do about it."

"No, that's where you're wrong. There _is_ something you can do."

He snorted. "Yeah? Like what, a group hug?"

"Tell me what you want from them."

House stared at her. Tell her what he wanted from people? He had plenty to say on that topic. For starters, there was, _'Leave me alone. Don't stare at me like I'm a freak. I don't want your pity. I'm still that mean-tempered bastard you used to hate.'_

Except that he wasn't that person anymore. Not really.

And he _was _a freak, so why shouldn't people stare at him? It was normal behavior, and with the stares came the pity. He'd always have to deal with it.

As for being left alone, well, wasn't that easy enough? He could quit his job and stay home the rest of his life. Exactly what he'd decided not to do. If he wanted to work, he had to be in the public eye, at least a little. And being around people meant being stared at and everyone acting weird around him.

He couldn't even work up much anger over _that_. Any loud noises or sudden movement startled the hell out of him. No wonder people acted weird. He looked like ten miles of bad road and no amount of surgery would roll back time to fix him up good as new. Nothing left to do now but mark time, try to be useful until his number came up.

He hated these maudlin, useless thoughts.

Milton watched him, saw his lips part slightly to draw in a long breath, but not to speak. Clearly he had no ready answer for what he wanted.

"I had a patient last year," she murmured into his silence, "a young man who was a successful artist. He was in great demand for his historical murals, made a good living. Then he was in a major car accident and lost the hearing in both ears. He knew he was lucky that he could still pursue his career. Use his talent. But he told me that now, when his work was reviewed, or he did an interview, everyone referred to him as the deaf artist." She smiled wryly. "He hated that, being defined as deaf before anything else. He even said he'd be okay if they'd refer to him as 'the artist, who is deaf.' At least then he'd be an artist first." Cate studied House's battered face, how carefully he guarded his expressions. "House, what happened to you can't be undone. But I think maybe you'd like to tell people that it doesn't define who you are. That it isn't _all _you are."

His lips twitched in a tiny, harsh smile. "Sure, if it were true. There's only one thing that hasn't been broken, Dr. Freud. This." He used his eyes to indicate his office. "I'm still the best damn diagnostician on the East Coast. Or the West Coast, for that matter. Everything else ... is gone." House drew another deep breath and closed his eyes a moment. "Tell your guilt-ridden patients whatever you have to. But we both know sometimes there is no closure. No right answer. No fairy-tale happy endings. Sometimes life just crushes you like a bug."

Milton could see how his shoulders sagged, hear the strain in his voice. She'd scared him awake and then wearied him with her questions. "Dr. House ... do you want that to be how others see you? Treat you? Like a bug squashed under Robert Thompson's shoe?"

"No." His voice was fading. "But I don't see much choice." House held out the water bottle to her. "Put it on the desk on your way out."

She took the bottle but otherwise didn't move. Her gaze was steady on him and a tiny frown line appeared between her brows. "That's not good enough," she murmured. "My patients need more than that."

Moving gingerly, House lay back in his chair. "Who is it?"

"What?"

"Which member of my team is your patient?" House looked up at the ceiling tiles. "We can eliminate Raja. She's new. Got no reason to care."

Cate smiled in spite of herself. "I have quite a number of patients. None of whom I can identify to you. Ever hear of confidentiality?"

His eyes began to settle shut. "We can probably rule out Foreman, too. He doesn't give a damn. But Chase ... well, he's just a fount of daddy issues. And mommy issues, too. A regular emo kid."

Setting the bottle on his desk, Catherine noted how quickly House had dismissed Foreman from his list of suspects. She also realized he was trying to bait her for clues. "What happened to your finger?"

Although his eyes were closed, his brows rose, furrowing his forehead. "Well, see, there was this rich, evil guy --"

"The one in the splint," she clarified.

House was silent for several long moments. "Milton." He sighed, voice flagging. "Tell your patients to get over their guilt. There was nothing they or anyone could have done. And if they'd tried to help they'd only have been killed. Just ... tell them to forget about it and get on with their lives."

Cate bowed her head, unwilling to admit defeat. She didn't think House was lying to her, or even evading the question. It was just that his pragmatic, water-under-the-bridge viewpoint was not going to help her patients. She tried to imagine herself telling Foreman,_ "House doesn't give a damn what you think about him. Sorry that doesn't give you anything to go on."_

Problem was, House wasn't ready to tackle other people's reactions to him. It was too early in his recovery. When she'd sprung the question on him, Milton could see in his face it wasn't an issue he'd given much thought to, except to assume they'd be curious.

So ... what now?

"You married?"

The harsh whisper almost made her jump. She looked at House. He appeared to be totally relaxed in his chair, feet up, heavy-lidded eyes sweeping over her.

"No ring," he added.

"I'm divorced," she told him in a neutral tone, letting him see that she didn't mind the question.

"Who dumped whom?"

"It was a mutual dumping. Do you have a point, or are you just looking for some buttons to push?"

His tiny smile was quickly banished. "How long has it been? You dating yet?"

Cate smiled. "Why? Are you asking me out, doctor?"

House chuffed a laugh. "That'll fuel some nightmares for you. No, I'm just thinking ... we could strike a deal."

Now her interest was piqued. If he wanted a deal, that meant he wanted something from her. She couldn't imagine what it could be. "What kind of deal?"

He was silent for a few moments, considering. "I'll think about what you can tell your patients about me, if you ... go out with Wilson."

She just stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly. "Go out ... with Dr. Wilson?" She tried to process the idea. "I've never even met him."

"I'll take care of that. Got Friday night free?"

"Hold on. I think you're confused. Although they both begin with the letter "P", psychiatrist and prostitute are two different thi--"

House waved a hand impatiently. "I didn't say 'put out.' I said '_go_ out.' Believe me, Wilson's too nice a guy to put any moves on you that you don't encourage. Come on. A play or a movie, a nice dinner ... he'll be paying. It's not like I'm asking you to empty bedpans."

She folded her arms. "If you tell me why, the answer is 'maybe.' If you don't, the answer is 'no.'"

"Think of your poor, suffering patients," House intoned sorrowfully.

"Hunh." She dismissed the fake appeal to her better nature. "Wilson's your best friend. Why are you setting him up on a blind date with me?"

"It won't be a blind date, you can meet him Friday ni--"

"_Why,_ House?"

He let out a long breath and stared fixedly at the connecting door to the conference room, rather than meet her gaze. "Because ... Wilson needs to get out. Relax. Get a life. You're single. He's single. About the same age. Both of you are decent-looking professionals. And Wilson's hobby has always been psychoanalysis. It's a good fit."

"Have you got our china patterns picked out yet?"

That got her a direct look, albeit a glower. "Believe me, you don't want to marry him. Anything short of that, it's up to you two."

"And if I do this ... _one _date with Wilson ... what do I get?"

House shrugged lightly. "I'll think about what you said. Try to give you some kind of real answer, if I can. Truthfully, I don't see how anything I say will help people deal with their guilt, or whatever. But I'll try."

Milton cocked her head slightly, considering. "You really care about Wilson, don't you."

"He's just whiny and mopey when he isn't getting any fuzz. I'm hoping going out with you will take some of his edge off."

She laughed. "You're full of shit, Dr. House. So what's your plan for Friday?"


	36. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

A/N: Yup, it's been about a thousand years since I updated this little tale, but here's a new chapter. I wish I could promise the next one soon, but I don't like to make promises I'm not sure I can keep.

So ... if you're too disgusted with the time lag to keep reading, I'll be the first to say I don't blame you!

ooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

The sound of footsteps from the conference room pulled his attention away from the patient file he was reading for the third time.

House reached for the phone intercom. "Who's in there?"

After a few seconds Devi Rajghatta's voice responded, "It's me, Dr. House."

"Come in here." When she came into his office, he met her expectant look. "Carrig. How long has he got?"

Her expression sobered. "Not long. Three days. Four at most, without a transplant."

_Don't do it_, House's inner voice warned him. "What's his condition right now? Is he conscious?"

"Sometimes he comes to for a few minutes. He drifts in and out. Mostly out."

_It's a stupid idea. I'm telling you, don't do it,_ the warning voice growled at him. House nodded to himself. "Get a wheelchair and bring it back here."

She stared at him. "You want to -"

"Yeah. I have to see him." _Fucking moron,_ the inner voice moaned.

ooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

He'd battled with the idea all day, and even the interruption by Cate Milton hadn't derailed his train of thought.

Carrig was dying, and nothing in the patient's scans, test results or history gave any clue why. He'd had a massive heart attack, but there was no coronary artery disease, no clots, no anomalies at all. Coronary artery vasospasm had been ruled out by a heart catheterization. Drug use was a logical conclusion, but aside from Viagra, tests showed the patient was clean.

There had to be some wild card here, some vital piece of information they didn't have. House _had_ to find out what was killing him. Getting the answers via autopsy had always left him with the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth.

Waiting for Devi to return with the wheelchair, House already felt himself tensing. That voice in his head was right, it was a stupid idea. The odds that a visual exam of the patient would reveal anything new was a one-in-a-million shot. Might as well order a full body scan.

But if he didn't try, then he couldn't tell himself he'd done everything he could.

He considered calling Wilson, then rejected the idea with a harsh sigh. "Man up and deal with it," he muttered to himself, and tried to ignore the tightness in his throat and the way his heartbeat was picking up speed. The stress ramped up a notch when Devi brought in the chair. Concentrating on keeping his balance, he got himself into the wheelchair without incident and noted that Rajghatta didn't offer to help. Fast learner. "Listen. We'll take the staff elevators. Don't stop for anyone on the way."

ooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Devi moved quickly, pushing her boss' wheelchair down the hall to the bank of elevators, thankful that one of them was empty, ready and waiting. Once in, she pressed the button for the fourth floor, and then the door-close button when she spied an orderly approaching them. The elevator began its ascent. With a silent sigh she glanced at House. He was staring at the floor, tense and preoccupied.

Why was he going to the trouble of going to the patient's room? Foreman and Chase had told her House had rarely ever met his patients - that, in fact, he intensely disliked getting mired in the human elements of his job. He much preferred the logic and elegance of test results and their orderly numbers.

And that had been before Thompson. Now he was even more adamant about avoiding patient contact - or contact with just about anyone.

Clearly he was just as baffled by this case as his subordinates were if he was willing to go to this extreme.

As the elevator passed the third floor she saw him try to straighten a bit and set his expression into a calm mask. His eyes met hers for half a second as if checking to see if she was ready to run the gauntlet with him.

ooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

People looked, then stared. In reality it was only a few people who actually stopped and gaped, but it seemed to Devi like they were under Hollywood spotlights. Again she walked quickly, moving fast to reach Carrig's room. She got no objection from her silent boss.

Near the door to the patient's room, House broke his silence. "Stop here." His gaze swept over the room. "Make sure he's out of it. Turn off the lights and pull the blinds."

Devi didn't dare question his orders. She just nodded and did what she was told.

Once the room was darkened, House wheeled himself over to the bed.

To Devi's eyes, Carrig appeared thin and frail and clearly not long for this world. She hoped against hope that House, who looked barely healthier than his patient, would be struck by that out-of-the-blue inspiration he was known for.

"Rail," he said softly.

Moving quietly, Devi lowered the bed rail.

For several seconds, House merely looked at the monitors, then at Carrig's face and the rise and fall of the ailing man's chest.

"Open the gown."

She drew the covers down. PPTH patient gowns overlapped and fastened in the front, so it was easy for her to do as House asked without disturbing the patient. Carrig remained still and the monitors showed no sign of him rousing.

House stood up, using his good leg. "Got your penlight?" He nodded when she produced it from the pocket of her lab coat. "Shine it on his hand." He carefully manipulated the limp fingers of Carrig's near hand, checking palm, back and wrist. Devi moved the small spot of light as House's exam continued up the arm to the shoulder and armpit. "Toes," House murmured.

Devi walked around him to the foot of the bed and shined the light as House studied the man's foot, ankle, and on up to the groin. Then House returned to his wheelchair and moved to Carrig's other side, where they repeated the process as Carrig lay unconscious. House started to move his hand to the patient's abdomen, but stopped himself. His gnarled hands no longer had the sensitivity or delicacy to palpate.

House sat down again and thought. Devi waited patiently, penlight off, checking Carrig's vital signs on the monitors. Finally House gave a very soft sigh. "Get rid of the boxers."

She fetched scissors from the cart and carefully cut the garment away.

"No rash. No lesions," her boss complained under his breath. "Damn it."

At his nod, Devi put on gloves and lifted Carrig's penis, then his scrotum, shining her light on the exposed skin. Apparently House saw no clues there, either, and jerked his head slightly. Devi fastened Carrig's gown around him and pulled up the blanket.

She was surprised at her own disappointment. Somehow she'd been sure House would see some obscure sign and shout "Eureka!"

Instead, he was glowering at Carrig's slack face.

"What if I call in a nurse? We could turn him over and check again," she suggested.

He shook his head once, curtly, still deep in thought. The visual exam had been a last-ditch idea anyway. He really hadn't expected a crude look-over to find anything that three other doctors and a handful of nurses hadn't found first. "Personal effects?" It was just a formality, something to do before admitting to himself that he was thoroughly stumped.

"In the safe at the nurses station."

"Get them."

House wheeled his chair away from Carrig's bed. He could practically hear the clock ticking off the last hours of his patient's life. "No pressure," he muttered to himself with a sour smile.

Devi returned shortly with a manila envelope. Pulling up a visitor's chair near House, she sat and opened the string tie on the envelope and took out its contents: A keyring with several keys, wallet, a pack of gum, loose change and a baseball game stub.

House reached for the wallet, fumbling it open. Cash, credit cards, bank cards, driver's license, business cards, photos. Chase and Foreman had already gone over the stuff for clues. Shifting his weight off the healing bruise on his hip, House studied the photos, looking for impressions, hints of who Carrig was, what his life had been like before illness struck.

All he could readily see was that Carrig seemed to be a run-of-the-mill family man and small-business owner. Pretty wife, shiny kids. He handed the wallet back to Devi. "Take out the cards."

A few moments later she handed him a small stack of cards. Concentrating hard to get his clumsy fingers to grip, he shuffled through them. Two bank cards. Three credit cards. None of the business cards rang any alarms. As he flipped past them to the driver's license, a mild spasm in his arm caused the cards to slip through his fingers.

"I'll get them," Devi said, reaching down to gather them up.

"Wait." As she paused, he gripped the arms of the wheelchair and leaned over slightly. "There's something stuck on the back of the license."

Frowning, Devi picked it up and flipped it over. A piece of paper was stuck there. She carefully peeled it off and handed the license and the paper to House.

It was a dull green tag with the number 36 stamped on it. The paper itself felt slightly tacky. On impulse, House held it to his nose. The faintest whiff ... something medicinal?

He closed his eyes and let his thoughts run with the impressions he got from the scent. It was vaguely familiar. He knew it ... then he heard an echo of Wilson's voice: "Smells like the Broncos' locker room to me."

How would Wilson know what the Broncos' locker room smelled like, anyway? Definitely something to ask him.

"Ben Gay."

"What?"

He nodded toward the keyring. "Go through that. Is there a small key? Like for a locker? Or do any of them have the number 36 on it?"

ooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Back in the Diagnostics department conference room, House addressed Chase and Devi. "Call the wife. Friends and coworkers. See if they know where he worked out."

Ten minutes later, as he rested in his office, the intercom beeped.

"We've called everybody. No one knew he went to a gym," Chase's disembodied voice informed him. "No formal or informal sports. Not even jogging or yoga or hiking."

Huh, House thought. No info, even from Carrig's wife? Curiouser and curiouser.

"Get in here. Raja too." He watched them file in and wait for his orders. "Take the key, the tag and a photo. Check out every gym and fitness center around his office and home. I want to see whatever's in that locker. When you find the right place, ask questions. What does he do when he's there, what days and times does he go, how often. Who does he know there. Any comments he's made that might be about symptoms. Get all the information you can."

ooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Lisa Cuddy stared at the telephone on her desk, mentally rehearsing what she planned to say. There was an art to these kinds of conversations, and usually she excelled at it.

Deliberately, reluctantly, she dialed the number.

After the third ring, the line was picked up and a woman's voice said, "Hello?"

Cuddy smiled, so that it could be heard in her voice. "Hello, is this Mrs. Barbara Cameron? It's Dr. Lisa Cuddy, from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

"Oh ... Dr. Cuddy, how are you? It's been a long time."

In her mind's eye Cuddy saw again the image of Allison Cameron's mother, a slender woman with dark hair peppered with silver and a warm smile. She'd met the Camerons at Allison's funeral.

"Yes, it has. I'm doing well. How are you and your husband?" Dr. Terry Cameron was a professor of botany at a state college in Connecticut.

"We're doing okay," Barb Cameron replied, "all things considered." Her friendly tone kept the remark from being off-putting.

"I'm glad. I'm calling because I have some wonderful news for you." _Keep it simple, _Cuddy reminded herself. "Yesterday an anonymous donor gave the hospital an enormous monetary gift to build a new pediatric oncology wing. The wing will be named after your daughter."

"What?" Mrs. Cameron sounded stunned. Who wouldn't be amazed at such news, Cuddy thought. "A wing? For Allison?"

"That's right. What better way to remember her? It will be a state-of-the-art research and treatment facility for children with cancer."

"Oh..." Mrs. Cameron still seemed tongue-tied. "It's ... it's incredible. But who? Why?"

Here Cuddy felt she should fudge a bit. "The donor insists on remaining anonymous. It doesn't matter who, or why. We'll soon have architects drawing up plans, and when the time comes to break ground, perhaps you and your family would like to attend the ceremony? Although it's months away yet."

For a moment there was silence on the line, then Barbara Cameron spoke softly. "Is it ... him? Dr. House? I know he's come into a lot of money, and I heard he's working there again."

Lisa kept her reply calm and unhurried. "No, the donor is not Dr. House. The same donor has given an identical large sum to the hospital for another wing, dedicated to Dr. House." She waited for that news to be digested, reminding herself that the mother of the murdered young woman was entitled to her complicated emotions in this regard. The Cameron family had no doubt felt a great hatred toward Gregory House for the murder of their daughter. Years later, when House's innocence was revealed, the family's anguish was compounded further. House had not killed Allison Cameron. But how could her family not still find blame in him?

"Him, too? So the person giving the money knows them both?"

"It's impossible to say, Mrs. Cameron. We don't know -"

"Oh my God," the other woman interrupted, a hint of fear becoming evident in her voice, "is it that madman? Someone connected to him? Could -"

"_No,_ Mrs. Cameron," Cuddy spoke firmly, before the woman's anxiety could spiral higher. "Absolutely not. If we even suspected it was possible, we wouldn't take a penny of the money."

"But ... how can you be sure?"

Cuddy sighed to herself. Robert Thompson had been an evil spider, crouched at the center of a vast web. House's publicized history of being snared in that web could make anyone paranoid. "The donation is coming from a group that has no connection whatsoever to ... that man." Of course there _was_ a connection, but Cuddy wasn't going near that can of worms.

Barbara Cameron sounded reassured. "This is incredible. Alli would be so proud."

Then came the tears, and Cuddy was back on solid ground. Comforting the bereaved was part of her job.

ooooooooOOOOOOOOoooooooooo

Wilson tapped on the door. "House? It's me." He heard a rasped reply he took as an acknowledgement and went in.

House was behind his desk, legs propped up on the corner, staring out the door to the courtyard.

With a pang, Wilson recognized the pose and the preoccupied expression - this was House fully engaged in a case, his brain going 120 mph, sorting and sifting information, comparing symptoms to diseases, seeking the one piece of data that would tie everything together.

The only thing missing was the spinning cane or bouncing ball or any of the myriad ways House used to occupy his hands while his thoughts flew.

Taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, Wilson sat back and studied House's semi-scowl of concentration. "Why the long face?"

House's thoughts were a million miles away. "Genetics. Mom's side."

"I _meant, _what's on your mind?"

Exhaling softly, House leaned his head back and shifted his shoulders. "Why would a successful, married, middle-aged man join a health club and not tell anybody?"

"Uhhh ..." Wilson considered it. "He's looking for something on the side. Goes to a place like that to find the Spandex bunnies."

That got House to look at him. "It's been what, five years? And still the first thing your mind goes to is cheating."

"Yes, but you know I'd never cheat on _you_, darling," Wilson sighed, getting a tiny smile in response. "Okay, maybe ... midlife crisis. His doctor tells him his cholesterol or blood pressure is too high, so he gets scared and goes on a secret health kick. Doesn't want to worry the wife."

House mulled it over. "Maybe. Chase and Ghandi are out scouring the guy's neighborhood. They better turn up something, fast."

"Until they get back you're just spinning your wheels here, Let's go."

The thought of going home to sprawl on the couch while Wilson fixed dinner was undeniably tempting. It had been a long, tense day, between Foreman's unease, Pevey's encounter with Rajghatta, Cate Milton dropping in and his trip upstairs to get a look at Carrig. Along with the usual symphony of aches and pains to deal with, his back and legs were tired from the day's activity and his shoulder muscles burned from tension.

"I have to be here."

Wilson tipped his head to the side. "House, if your team finds something, they'll call you. Your cell phone works at home, too," he deadpanned.

"I need to see what they bring back. If they find anything, it may be all we have to go on."

"Then have them bring it directly to your place. They already know where you live. There's no reason you need to stay here." Wilson held up his hand for emphasis. "In the old days you used to pull all-nighters, but you can't do that now."

As usual, Wilson was being quite reasonable. And unfortunately, he was right. Exhaustion was pulling at House from all sides, aggravating all his other issues. But instinct told him the game was afoot. This was his mojo speaking to him, his gift, the thing that made him the best. It was the only thing he could still trust.

"Wilson ... I know. But it's only 4:30. I can give them another couple of hours."

He watched his friend absorb this. Wilson slowly stood up and picked up House's backpack, pulling out the pill organizer. Setting it on the desk, Wilson began taking out medications. "Muscle relaxant. These two for pain. Antacids. And I want to check your blood pressure."

ooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Ooooooooooooooooooo

House reclined in his lounge chair and submitted to the pressure check. Wilson wasn't giving him too hard a time about staying late, although apparently there were going to be a few guidelines.

"Pressure's a little high, but not in the red zone. Why don't you rest until you hear from Chase." Wilson detached the cuff and set the sphygmometer by the door. Ensconcing himself in House's desk chair, he frowned slightly. "You said Chase and Devi are out looking for this guy's gym. Where's Foreman?"

"At home wrestling with his demons or something. It doesn't matter."

Wilson opened his mouth to comment, but thought better of it. "Are you hungry? Want me to order something?"

"If you're hungry, go ahead. I'll wait a while." He felt a little too anxious to eat. He was betting everything on this snipe hunt. If Chase came back empty handed, the patient was very probably going to die. Even if Chase did find something, what if it didn't help? What if they couldn't connect the dots?

Wilson's soft voice broke into his thoughts. "You always specialized in finding the answers. Pulling patients back from the brink. You saved that woman with spotted fever yesterday. But even before – well, _before_ ... sometimes there just weren't enough clues, or enough time."

"You think my patient's a goner? Trying to let me down easy?" His tone wasn't belligerent, only matter of fact.

"I don't know, House. It's just ... you were put into a position where you were given this ... this ... _obscene_ responsibility for other people's lives. I don't want to see you carry that over to your patients. You do tend to obsess, you know."

House considered. "I have enough issues without adding a savior complex. Still, I'm a doctor. I'm supposed to save people's lives."

"You're supposed to _try_." Wilson shrugged. "And you _are_ trying. That's all you can do." Hoping he'd made his point, Wilson leaned back in the comfortable leather chair. "By the way, you remember tomorrow night Dr. Levin's coming by."

"He'll be wasting his time."

"It's his time to waste. You know, you might need to tell him some ... personal things."

"Doubt it," House muttered.

"I can hang out in another room, give you two some privacy."

"No." It escaped him before he was even aware of saying anything. House winced and looked away, ashamed that he'd become such a fearful creature. _Damn it_. "We won't be getting all that personal, trust me."

A sly smile tilted Wilson's lips. "Don't worry, I have a great idea."


End file.
